


Crown on the Ground

by rillrill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Princess Diaries - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Gen, How the hell do I tag this, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Modern Royalty, Politics, Romantic Comedy, Teenage Drama, The Princess Diaries - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Daenerys Targaryen, queen of the small European principality of Westeros, discovers that she is infertile, she has six months to declare a legitimate heir to the throne, or else, under Westerosi law, it will pass into the hands of her distant cousin Robert Baratheon. With no immediate family and no children, she has no choice but to turn to the very last of the Targaryen line: nearly eighteen years ago, her late brother Rhaegar eloped with an American named Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar and Lyanna were desperately in love, but family pressures eventually prevailed, and after Lyanna died during childbirth, Rhaegar returned to Westeros to remarry, leaving their son, Jon, with Lyanna’s brother’s family in Los Angeles. His adoptive parents – partially for his own safety – never even told him he was a prince.</p><p>Now, Dany has six months and all the resources of Westeros with which to turn this grungy LA teen into crown prince material – all while keeping his royal identity firmly under wraps from the court, the press, and his ragtag bunch of friends.</p><p>(Or, The Princess Diaries AU, in which Jon Snow is Anne Hathaway and Dany is almost as cool as Julie Andrews.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally based on [this prompt](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/20153.html?thread=13289657#t13289657), but this thing has taken on a life of its own.
> 
> Updates will hopefully be frequent and not terrible. I'm just so enamored by this dumb idea.
> 
> FYI, this is tagged as Jon/Daenerys for... plot and categorization reasons, because it's mostly about the relationship between their two characters. But it's not going to be outwardly shippy between the two of them, sorry! Other relationships will be added later, as not to spoil the plot trajectory.

**Dany**

Queen Daenerys Targaryen was not a woman who was easily defeated.

At 35, she knew a thing or two about hardship and loss. After all, she had only ascended to the throne after her brother Rhaegar, his wife, and their children were killed in a helicopter crash in the Swiss Alps. Her first and only husband, an oil sheik, had died young, but not before they’d suffered two miscarriages and a stillbirth. And on the day of her 35th birthday, she sat in the royal OB-GYN’s office while he relayed the gory details of her infertility tests.

“So what you’re telling me,” she said, slowly and clearly, “is that there is no chance that I will ever have a child of my own?”

The doctor shook his head. “Even with IVF and fertility treatments, it doesn’t look that way. It seems that you’re a carrier for a genetic abnormality that affects the egg’s ability to gestate normally. Just in case, I ran the same tests on the eggs you froze ten years ago – no luck.”

Dany nodded, her lips pursed grimly, as she took in the information. “And I don’t suppose that using my own eggs in a surrogate mother would solve this issue, then?”

“No.” The doctor gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand, before withdrawing his own hand apologetically. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. In all honesty, I forgot who I was talking to for a moment.”

“It’s all right. You don’t have to apologize.” She didn’t have the energy to repudiate him. With a sigh, she stood up, prompting the doctor to stand as well. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I trust that you’ve done everything you can.”

“Unfortunately, it appears that way.” He opened the small office door for her, and she strode out into the lobby, where Jorah and her security detail stood waiting.

Jorah Mormont was her closest confidante, the aide who had been there for her as long as she’d been in power. He’d previously worked for some associate of a distant relative, and how he’d come into her service, she’d long forgotten, but his experience and wisdom had proved indispensable over the years, particularly since she had come into power.

“Your Grace,” he nodded, as the doctor’s door swung shut behind them. They began to walk toward her waiting limousine, flanked by the two security officers in black suits. “Any news?”

She sighed. “There was news, yes, but none of it good.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said gravely. “Truly. If there’s anything I can do –”

Dany shook her head. “I’m fine, Jorah, honestly. To tell the truth, I accepted that this might be a possibility a long time ago. But now that I have concrete proof, we have other – issues – to which we need to attend.”

“Issues of…” Jorah seemed slightly confused as they slid into the backseat of the limo.

“Issues of succession,” Dany finished for him. “Under Westerosi law, a ruling monarch who is proven infertile has only a set period of time after their infertility is confirmed in which to name an heir, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the last of my family line.”

“I know that, Your Grace,” said Jorah, sounding chastened.

“So it follows that if I should fail to unearth some legitimate Targaryen child within the next year and name him or her as my heir, the throne will eventually pass to my closest living relatives – which, at this point, happens to be…”

“Robert Baratheon,” Jorah finished. “A distant cousin, I believe?”

“We shared a great-grandparent,” Dany nodded. “Although this is where it gets particularly tricky – the throne wouldn’t pass until I do, which, God willing, won’t be for quite a long time. Which means that the next person likely to rule Westeros is Robert Baratheon’s son, the Duke Joffrey Baratheon.”

“Ah,” said Jorah. “If my memory serves me, is he the one who attended last year’s Christmas tree lighting at the palace and instructed the children’s choir performing ‘Away in a Manger’ to, and I quote, ‘Suck on ‘deez nuts’?’”

“That would be the one,” Dany agreed, cringing at the memory. Later during the Christmas celebration, Robert’s son had proceeded to get smashingly drunk on wine from the visiting royal family of Dorne’s vineyards. Over the course of the evening, he managed to threaten his uncle Tyrion, one of Westeros’ most prominent diplomatic ambassadors, curse out three separate members of the Dornish royalty, and fall down while attempting a skateboard trick on the palace stairs. If the throne were to pass into the hands of Joffrey Baratheon, Dany found it a safe bet that the country would be a smoldering ruin by the first anniversary year of his reign.

Jorah shook his head. “If you’ll pardon my candor, your grace – what exactly are you going to do about this? Because unless you’ve got some unknown heir tucked away in some godforsaken corner of the world somewhere –” Dany smiled serenely, and he did a double take, sputtering, “But – you don’t – you’re not –”

“I may not be fertile,” she said. “But my late brother, God rest his soul, very much was. And it just so happens that there _is_ a legitimate heir to the throne, very much tucked away in some godforsaken corner of the world. It’s called Los Angeles.”

**Jon**

The morning of Monday, October 3rd, was the kind of exceptionally typical day that didn’t even seem to register on a scale of Boring to Less Boring. He woke up to the blaring of his clock radio playing the KROQ morning show and managed to shuffle to the upstairs bathroom just in time to beat Robb into the shower (and thank God, because his cousin’s newfound manscaping routine had the twin misfortunate side effects of clogging the shower drain and using up all the hot water). He washed his hair, brushed his teeth in the tub to save time, and splashed water over his face, willing himself to look alive, feel alert, and not have another typically shitty week.

In his bedroom, he threw on his Westwood School uniform – khakis, a white button-down, and a pale-blue-and-navy striped tie that he left purposely loose. The uniform was the bane of his existence. He found it creatively stifling and ugly to boot – the fact that he had to dress exactly the same as every other guy at the school, when he had so little in common with any of them, only made it worse. In front of the mirror, he ran his fingers through his black curls, making a weak attempt to style them, and then pushed his feet into his beat-up Converse and shouldered his book bag.

At the beginning of his junior year at Westwood, Jon really thought the year was going to be different. He was an upperclassman, after all, and all those years of getting picked on by Robb and Theon seemed like they were finally coming to an end. But instead, he just found himself in over his head in a host of AP classes and stuck hanging out with the same group he’d always known. Girls paid him no attention, he sucked at sports, and he didn’t even have his driver’s license. 

The license thing was the worst. At a school where seemingly everyone got a BMW, Mercedes, or Lexus for their sweet sixteen, Jon was still stuck getting dropped off in his aunt’s Subaru. The Starks were the kind of family that didn’t really go in for conspicuous displays of wealth. Uncle Ned was a prominent film producer, and Aunt Catelyn had been an equally prominent writer before she’d given up her career to raise five kids (well, six, if Jon counted himself), but even though their house in Beverly Hills was large, it was still nowhere near the size of some of his classmates’ homes in Bel Air and the Hollywood Hills. Robb had managed to wheedle Ned into buying him a brand-new Volvo for his seventeenth birthday earlier that year, calling in ten years’ worth of lawnmowing and pool-cleaning chores as a debt to be repaid, but it had been made clear to Jon from day one that if he wanted a car of his own, he’d have to end up paying for it himself.

It wasn’t that big of a deal, in the long run. He’d had his eye on a sweet ’77 Mustang at a used-car dealership in Toluca Lake for almost three months now, and he’d saved up enough money from summer jobs and doing yardwork for the neighbors to almost buy it outright _and_ pay for all the work it needed. But the issue of the license was what stymied him. He’d failed his first attempt at the driver’s test miserably – he trampled both cones while trying to parallel park, forgotten to check his rearview mirror, and then sideswiped an oncoming car as he pulled back out. His instructor told him she had never seen a worse first attempt. His face still burned with embarrassment as he recalled the afternoon.

Luckily, he was due to retake the test in two months, and the second round of having his permit hadn’t gone too badly. As he took his seat at the large, oval-shaped breakfast table, he said, “Morning, Aunt Cat. Do you think it would be cool if I practiced driving to school today?”

His aunt looked up from the kitchen counter, where she was distributing sliced fruit into tupperware containers for the younger boys’ lunches. “Oh, god, Jon, I wish you’d asked me earlier. I actually have a meeting with the parents' association at Bran and Rickon’s school this morning, so I’m going to need you and the girls to catch a ride with Robb, if that’s all right.”

Jon made a face, pouring himself a glass of orange juice and downing it in a single gulp. “I guess that’s cool,” he said. “Are you sure there’s going to be room? I think Robb’s been driving Theon around a lot.”

“It’s because Theon got his license taken away after he tried to drive home from some party where he was really drunk,” Arya piped up from across the table, where she was hunched over her geometry book, working desperately on a set of proofs. “I overheard him and Robb talking about it last weekend. He’s paying Robb to drive him to school and back and not tell anyone at school about what happened.” She paused, then scribbled through one of her answers, scrawling the correct answer beside it.

Aunt Cat frowned as she closed the last container of apple slices and placed it inside Rickon’s Buzz Lightyear lunch bag. “You know, I’ve never liked Robb hanging around that boy. He’s a bad influence. That entire family is.” The Greyjoys were the definition of new money – their dad, Balon, had struck gold in becoming one of the first doctors to open a medical marijuana dispensary several years ago. “Doctor Greenjoy” had billboards all over town, featuring himself in a white medical coat over a tie-dyed t-shirt, and the whole family – Balon, Theon, and his older sister Asha – were notorious stoners. Jon didn’t really mind Theon, and Asha was actually pretty awesome, but ever since she’d gone away to UC Santa Cruz to study photography, and Robb and Theon had started acting the way they did these days, he found himself spending less and less time at the Greyjoys’ house, even though they only lived a short walk away.

“It’s cool,” Jon said as he set his empty glass in the sink and picked up an apple of his own. “Robb’s backseat is pretty big. I’m sure Theon and the girls can all fit back there comfortably.”

“I’m not sitting in the backseat with Theon. He reeks of weed,” Arya replied without looking up from her homework. Jon took a bite of his apple and collapsed into the chair beside her dramatically, looking over her work. 

“Number three’s wrong,” he said, pointing at it. “That’s an acute angle, not obtuse. C’mon, Arya, simple stuff.”

She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. As long as it’s done, I get the credit for it. Mrs. Mordane never actually grades our homework.”

“Arya, your father and I are not paying $30,000 a year for you not to learn geometry,” Aunt Cat said from across the kitchen. “Do it over, and do it correctly.”

Arya huffed, and, dropping her pen, she closed her notebook and textbook simultaneously. “I’ll do it in first period,” she said, stuffing them both in her silver backpack. “Is Sansa ready yet? She was taking forever in the bathroom before.”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” said Sansa as she appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning on the doorjamb as she adjusted her knee socks. “I hate this uniform, Mom. Why can’t I have my old skirts back?”

“Because you shot up six inches last year and your old skirts were starting to look more than inappropriate,” her mother said without looking up from the counter.

Sansa heaved a sigh. “Mom, literally nobody buys new uniforms every year. Margaery Tyrell’s just as tall as I am and she still wears the same skirts from eighth grade. Her parents don’t care.”

“I don’t care what Margaery Tyrell’s parents do or don’t care about,” Aunt Cat replied. “I’m still not letting you walk out of the house in a skirt that fails the fingertip test. When you’re eighteen, wear whatever you want, but until then –”

“Yeah, yeah. Your house, your rules.” Sansa had her own backpack slung over one shoulder, and as she made eye contact with Jon, she rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. Jon stifled a laugh. Sansa was only one year younger than him, at fifteen, and Arya a year younger than her, at fourteen. At seventeen, Robb completed the pattern. The teachers at Westwood liked to say that the Stark kids came in a set like Russian nesting dolls. It was a joke that Jon could never really bring himself to laugh at, because he knew the truth – he wasn’t a Stark sibling, and he never would be. He was only part of the family because his mom, Ned’s sister, had died when he was still in diapers. He couldn’t remember much about her, only knew that she was an artist by trade. 

He had never known his dad at all.

When Robb finally appeared in the dining room, he was on his phone. “Yeah, I told you, it’s not a big deal,” he muttered. “I’ll come through, you know I always do. I gotta go.”

As he hung up, Aunt Cat gave him a look. “Were you talking to Theon?” she asked. 

Robb shrugged. “Yeah. It wasn’t a big deal, we were just talking about our Brit Lit presentation. We’re doing Macbeth and he forgot to do his part of the Powerpoint last night, so I have to do that in the library during lunch today, but whatever. I told him we’d talk about it on the way to school.”

Cat raised both eyebrows knowingly. “Well, you’ll be driving Jon and the girls today as well, so I hope you can talk about it in mixed company,” she said.

Jon watched, crunching on his apple, as Robb sighed in acquiescence. “Whatever,” he said. “I wish I didn’t always get stuck driving everyone else around –”

“You’re the one who wanted a car, man,” Jon said. “You pretty much brought this on yourself –”

“Ugh, Jon, could you just stay out of this?” Robb snapped. 

Jon shrugged. “Jesus, dude, I’m sorry. I just thought –”

“Yeah, well, next time, think harder,” Robb said irritably.

Across the room, Aunt Cat looked askance at both of the boys. “Robb, you need to apologize to your cousin,” she said, as she dropped the fruit knife in the sink. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”

Robb rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry. We’re late. Let’s go. Arya, hurry up, finish whatever you’re doing with that hard-boiled egg, we need to leave.” As he strode from the kitchen, car keys swinging from his hand, Jon glanced at his aunt. She looked back at him apologetically, but said nothing.

“C’mon,” he said, yanking at the back of Arya’s backpack playfully as she finished peeling her egg and dumped the shells in the trash. “Last one in the car has to sit by Theon.”

“Never!” she yelped, cramming half the egg into her mouth as she ran for the front door. Jon sighed, threw his messenger bag over his shoulder, and ran a hand protectively through his hair. Yeah. Another typical morning. It really bummed him out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Dany**

“You can't be serious.”

The queen's council sat assembled around the wide mahogany table in the State Room. Queen Daenerys herself was seated in the middle, in a chair slightly higher from the ground than the rest. She prided herself on her reputation as a hands-on head of state, and rarely missed a council meeting, but the heightened chair and her penchant for silently glaring at dissenting members of her cabinet were just a couple of the traits that earned her the nickname “Dragon Queen” in the press.

“I'm completely serious, Dr. Pycelle,” she said, folding her neatly manicured hands on the table before her and steepling her fingers. “I've had my barristers look over the issue, and they tell me my intentions are completely within the scope of the law. I intend to name Jon Snow Targaryen as my legitimate heir before the month is out.”

Across the table, Stannis Baratheon raised one finger into the air. Dany acknowledged him with a nod, and he said, “With all due respect, your Grace –”

“No remarks conferring respect have ever been made following that statement, Mr. Baratheon,” she said coolly. “However, you have the floor. Proceed.”

“Your Grace, I apologize, but you have to understand the position you're putting us all in. This teenager has no legitimate right to the throne.”

“He's got more of a right than anyone else at this table, not including myself,” Dany said.

“He's a foreigner. He wasn't brought up here. He doesn't understand the culture or the customs,” said Stannis stiffly. “Our culture is a precious artifact, one that must be preserved through observing the proper rights of succession –”

“And how many among the Westerosi elite were educated abroad? Among those of us at this table, I count myself, Dr. Pycelle, Mr. Varys, Mr. Baelish, Mr. Lannister, and both you and your brother, Stannis. I can't stand unspoken xenophobia. By all means, if this is where your conviction stems from, at least speak it out loud.”

“I am no xenophobe," Stannis said. "But this heir you're speaking of is an American citizen –”

“Who, as the child of a Westeros-born father, is eligible for dual citizenship. You, of all people should know that,” Dany said coolly. “Do you have any objections based in facts, rather than opinions?”

At the end of the table, Tyrion Lannister cleared his throat once before leaning forward to look at Dany as he spoke. “Forgive me for prying, your Grace,” he said. “But how, exactly, do you plan to execute this grand scheme? Let’s say, for instance, the boy isn’t cut out to rule? Do you know anything about him, what’s he’s like, what kind of politician he’ll be?”

This, Dany thought, was more than a valid point. Over the years, she’d had little contact with the Starks, as the entire business with Rhaegar and Lyanna had amounted to what was, quite frankly, a family embarrassment. She didn’t know much about Jon Snow, other than that he got good – but not excellent – grades, stayed (mostly) out of trouble at school, and had a Twitter feed that mostly consisted of song lyrics and complaints about homework. She had never met her nephew, and wasn’t even sure how much he knew about his family. Wouldn’t the Starks have told him about his father’s identity? How else would they explain the massive trust fund that had been established in his name? They must have at least given him the basics, she thought. To do otherwise would be vastly irresponsible.

She vocalized none of her ambivalence, though. “From what I’ve gathered, he seems like a genuine, intelligent, and most importantly, profoundly normal teenage boy,” she said. “Given how growing up with the understanding of one’s royal duties can warp young minds, I think it may, in fact, be for the best that he has had such a normal upbringing.” She didn’t need to name any names – she knew everyone in the council room was thinking of her own brother, Viserys, whose grisly death had made national headlines six years before. But she was also thinking of Tyrion’s nephew, Joffrey. She saw something in him, something that reminded her of Viserys all over again. She had grown to distrust young men who grew up undisciplined, with few obligations and fewer scruples. “Perhaps,” she added, “Jon Snow’s anonymity will make him a better ruler than if he had grown up under the microscope of fame, hyperaware of his destiny.”

Dany looked to Jorah, who sat beside her with a silver chrome ballpoint pen clasped loosely in one hand. He tapped one end on the thick, cream-colored stationary pad set before him, emblazoned with the Westerosi seal and _HRH Queen Daenerys_ in script at the top. “I agree with her Grace,” Jorah said. “We should at least give this boy a chance.”

“I agree as well,” said Petyr Baelish, who sat at the opposite end of the table, shuffling papers in the dossier he’d requested on the proposed heir. “He doesn’t have to be declared immediately. Her Grace still has six months in which to legitimize him as her heir. There’s still plenty of time to address any issues that may arise and, if necessary, make other arrangements.” He closed the folder and smiled placidly. “Let’s give this a try. I can’t think of any reason not to move forward.”

Dany took a deep breath, and stood up from her seat, prompting the men seated around her to rise as well. “Then it’s settled,” she said. “I’ll give him the news in person, I believe I owe the boy at least that much. Jorah and I will depart for Los Angeles this week.”

“Your Grace, I –” Stannis tried to interject, but Dany cut him off.

“If no one has any further objections to raise, I think we’re done,” she said, and, Jorah at her back, she marched forth from the room. Outside the room, Missandei, her private secretary, stood tapping out an email on her phone.

“Pardon, your Grace,” Missandei said as she caught up to Dany. “I have you scheduled for an 1100 audience with the Swedish ambassador –”

“Cancel it,” Dany muttered. “Tell them I’ve got the flu or something, I don’t have the patience to sit through another meeting just now.”

“Noted,” Missandei said. “As for your heir situation – are we a go? Shall I book travel now, or await further instructions?”

“Book it now,” Dany said, “and let’s try to avoid another hotel situation like the G20 in Yunk’ai, shall we?”

“Of course, your Grace, and again, I apologize. On the bright side, I don’t think we’ll run into any Beverly Hills hotels being caught using slave labor in their janitorial forces,” replied Missandei from behind her phone. “In regard to your hotel room – I’ll book the presidential suite, unless it turns out there’s a better option, in which case, I’ll book that. But do you have a preference as to your sleeping arrangements?”

“Meaning?” Dany asked.

“I assume Mr. Mormont will be accompanying you on your trip? Will he be needing a separate suite, or would you prefer an adjoining bedroom from your own room, in case an issue arises that requires his immediate advisement?”

Dany had to give Missandei credit for her careful phrasing. Nothing in her right-hand woman’s words could be used to suggest anything other than the truth, which was that Jorah Mormont was a trusted advisor. Nothing more. But Missandei, who was born in Morocco and studied abroad in the United Kingdom, had recently come to her highly recommended from the Dornish Prime Minister’s office, where she had undoubtedly spent many years honing the skill of double-speak regarding the sordid affairs of the political elite. It was obviously in her nature to make such assumptions. Thus, Dany decided against reprimanding her for the suggestion, but cooled her tone considerably as she replied, “Mr. Mormont is welcome to a suite of his own. I’m sure that, in the event I should require his advisement, his bedroom will be equipped with a telephone.”

Missandei flushed slightly, and nodded. “Understood, your Grace,” she said. 

As they reached Dany’s apartment in the palace, the queen turned back and added, “Be sure to book separate suites for Barristan and Daario. I’d like them both to accompany us as well. And Missandei?”

“Yes?”

“That’s a lovely blouse. Please have your assistant find a similar one in my size, and have it packed before we leave on Thursday.”

**Jon**

“Jesus Christ,” Jon said, rifling through his locker. “I know it’s here somewhere. I can’t have already lost it.” He’d only taken the book out of the library the Friday before – he thought he’d left it in his locker over the weekend, but the slim paperback was nowhere to be found. “Sam? Did you by any chance watch me lose a book and just not say anything?”

“Depends,” said Sam. “What book?”

“On the Road,” Jon said. “Kerouac. Paperback. Did I leave it at your place?”

Sam screwed up his face in thought. “Pretty sure you didn’t,” he said. “Though you do forget stuff a lot. Remember when you left that orange in your backpack over spring break and it fermented? And all your stuff smelled like vinegar for the rest of the semester?”

“Yeah, dude, I think we all remember that,” Jon said irritably. “ _Fuck me_.” He couldn’t afford to pay back another lost-book fee. This would be the second one already this year, and it was only October. He shoved his textbooks back into his locker and slammed the door, then jumped a little, startled. Theon Greyjoy was leaning on the other side of his locker, hands shoved into his pockets and sporting a smug smirk.

“Fuck who?” he asked. “You finally get some, Snow? Congratulations! Took you long enough.”

“Fuck off, Theon,” Jon muttered, out of habit more than anything else. “Arya was right, you smell like a Del Taco on 4/20. Guess that explains why you didn’t ride with Robb today.”

“Wake and bake, buddy,” Theon said gleefully. “Speaking of Robb, have you seen him? We’ve got a Macbeth presentation to half-ass together by sixth period and he’s not answering texts. I think he’s pissed at me.”

“I have no idea where he is, actually,” Jon said. “Try the library.”

“Already did. He’s not there,” said Theon. “He’s also not in the cafeteria, or out on the quad, or eating out on the loading dock by the auditorium. Since apparently he’s gone all Jason Bourne on me, I figured you might have some idea as to where he hides out, but… guess not.”

“Sorry, man,” Jon said. “Good luck on the presentation.”

Theon grinned. “Nah, it’s no big thing,” he said. “I got Asha to send me her old Brit Lit project on Much Ado About Nothing.”

“I thought you said you were doing Macbeth,” Sam piped up, looking up from his own phone.  


“Well, yeah,” Theon said. “But those old plays are all basically the same. Murder and mayhem and shit. Just change around the names and Wikipedia the plot summary and you’re done. Easy A.”

“I don’t really think that’s how it works,” Jon said. “Much Ado is a romantic comedy, and Macbeth is a really gory tragedy about what happens when too many people want to be the king. Those things don’t really go together.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Theon said. “ _That’s_ Shakespeare, I’m pretty sure. If you’ve never seen me bullshit, don’t tell me what I can and can’t make work.” He grinned, and patted Jon on the arm in what had to be the most condescending gesture of affection Jon had ever encountered. “But thanks for the summary. See? I already have a thesis.”

As Theon sauntered off down the hallway, Jon groaned. “That guy’s a dick,” Sam observed.

“Yeah,” Jon agreed. “I have no idea how we used to hang out together so much. Believe it or not, he used to actually be pretty cool.”

“I’m going to go with ‘not,’” said Sam. “Are you coming to lunch now, or not?”

“Dunno,” Jon said absently. He was looking past Sam, not making eye contact, suddenly distracted by a flash of honey-brown hair down the hall. Sam turned to follow his eyeline.

Margaery Tyrell was on the move down the hallway, flanked by her usual girl posse. She was as tall as either of the boys, and while she wore the same uniform as the rest of the girls at Westside, she somehow managed to make it look like something straight out of Jon’s own fantasies. Her navy sweater was tied loosely around her shoulders, and her skirt was far too short – there was no way she hadn’t faced the threat of detention for that. But it was her face that he found truly stunning. She had an Old Hollywood elegance to her bone structure, which made sense, once you found out that her grandmother was Dame Olenna Redwyne, one of the biggest film stars of the 1950s and 60s. Margaery looked exactly like a younger version of her grandmother, which Jon had first realized after happening across Bergman’s _Queen of Thorns_ on TCM one afternoon. They shared the same eyes, cheekbones, and turned-up nose, and had similar frames: tall and lithe. But while Olenna Redwyne had a certain cold, haughty quality to her, Margaery radiated warmth and charm. It was just something about the way she laughed as she spoke, acting as if every conversation was full of inside jokes with the other person, even if they’d never spoken before. Jon knew. He’d spoken to her twice and it was the same both times.

She was so far out of his league, it was ridiculous.

As Margaery passed, Jon felt someone hit him on the arm and turned to frown at Sam. “What was that for?” he asked.

“Uh, dude, isn’t that your cousin?” he asked, pointing at one of the three girls who flanked her. Sure enough, it was Sansa. She’d changed her hair from the loose side braid she’d had it in that morning to a half-up style that looked a lot like Margaery’s. Curiously enough, her own skirt looked a bit shorter as well. Jon rolled his eyes. Typical teenage girls. Sansa was a sweet girl, but she was a hopeless follower, in his estimation – she seemed terrified by the prospect of having to do her own thing, be her own person. But then again, he couldn’t blame her for being caught under Margaery’s spell. He’d probably do the same thing, if he were a girl.

As matters were, he just really, really wanted to make out with her.

Sam sighed. “She’s out of your league, man,” he said.

“He’s out of both of our leagues,” Jon said peevishly. “Since when are you such an expert in the affairs of the heart? Have you asked out Gilly yet?”

“I think I’m going to leave a note in her clarinet case during practice today,” Sam said. “Should I sign it? Or just have it be a secret admirer type thing?”

“I dunno. Do whatever you want,” Jon said as they made their way down the crowded hall, headed for the bright outdoors of the warm, sunny quad. “I thought you wanted to take her to homecoming? You should probably ask her soon. Girls are all gonna have dates pretty soon, it’s not that far away.”

“I guess,” Sam said, squinting as they pushed through the double doors at the end of the hall. Jon shielded his own eyes from the assault of the bright sunlight. “Who are you taking?”

“Oh, I’m not sure yet,” Jon said. “I might not go at all. Homecoming’s not really my thing.”

Sam sighed. “Jon, you have to come,” he said. “You don’t even have to go to the game, just to the dance. Go stag if you have to. Invite Osha, I bet she’d say yes.”

“I am not taking Osha to homecoming,” Jon said.

“Why not? She’s pretty!”

“She’s not my type.”

“That’s because your type is beautiful, unattainable cheerleaders who will never give you the time of day,” Sam said knowingly. “Just invite Osha. She’s fun and she won’t take you too seriously. I asked, she says you’re not her type either.”

That stopped Jon in his tracks. “What do you mean, I’m ‘not her type’?” he asked, affronted. “We’re practically the same person! We like all the same stuff!”

“Just because a girl likes the same bands as you doesn’t mean she wants to date you,” Sam said. “She likes guys who are more clean-cut, like Jojen Reed.”

Jon snorted. “Jojen? That Doogie Howser-looking dude? Isn’t he, like, twelve?”

“I think he skipped a grade or something. Does it matter? I’m just telling you what she told me,” Sam said.

“You try having someone turn you down for _Jojen Reed_ , then,” Jon said, still smarting.

“Dude! She didn’t even turn you down! You haven’t even asked her! You’re getting all worked up about a hypothetical rejection from a girl you just said you didn’t like!” Sam said. “God, Jon, you lecture me about this stuff. You’re one to talk.”

Jon sighed. They flopped down in the shade of the wide oak tree in the middle of the grassy part of the quad. It was commonly known around campus as the “freak tree,” and during freshman and sophomore lunch, it was mostly home to groups of kids wearing German death metal band pins on their jackets or anime characters on their backpacks. But it was mostly deserted during the junior/senior lunch period, which provided an excellent opportunity for Jon and Sam to spread out their books and try to finish some last-minute AP World Civ homework. Jon opened his textbook to a page about a third of the way through and tried to make sense of the questions on the page.

“Ugh, I don’t remember any of this,” he said, numbering his notebook paper. “Page 106. ‘The European principality of Westeros is one of the few Western countries to still be ruled by an absolute monarchy, yet it is now known as a progressive state due to its practice of absolute primogeniture and its robust social programs. Describe how the reign of the Targaryen dynasty, and their close relationships with the ruling families of Dorne, the Martells, have influenced Westerosi culture in the past hundred years.’ Like, seriously? When did we ever discuss any of this? Is this even going to be on the exam?”

“Dunno, but you should probably memorize it anyway,” Sam said. “That’s the kind of nit-picky shit that teachers love to throw on tests.”

Jon heaved a sigh. “Where is this place, anyway?” he asked. “Seriously, show me one person who can find it on a map. It’s barely a country.”

“It’s between Dorne and France,” Sam said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Literally nobody knows that,” Jon huffed as he began to scrawl out an answer in his wide-rule notebook.

“I’m pretty sure everyone knows that.”

“Nerd alert.”

“Takes one to know one.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Dany**

As her plane lifted off from the palace's private airfields, Dany leaned her head back against her seat back and exhaled slowly, willing her heart rate to slow. She had never particularly enjoyed flying, but her dislike of it had turned into a full-fledged fear after Rhaegar's death. Now she avoided it as much as possible, preferring that foreign dignitaries and emissaries would travel to her, instead. They usually did.

Beside her, Jorah reclined in his seat, flipping through a news magazine and paying little attention. He was wearing a sky-blue shirt beneath his khaki twill suit, a color Dany had always found exceptionally calming for a reason she couldn't articulate, and so she was glad of his presence as she dug her nails into the seat divider between them.

"So," she said shakily, after the plane had reached cruising altitude. "I think you should accompany Missandei and me to meet this boy for the first time."

Jorah looked at her askance over the top of his magazine. The look on his face suggested confusion, tinged with concern. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Do you plan to bring Barristan and Daario and the entire army as well?"

"I - well, no, I wasn't planning to bring Daario," Dany said. "I just think your presence would be a helpful addition. You worked for Rhaegar for so many years, so you have an innate understanding of the daily ins and outs of what being a prince entails. My brothers and I had very different upbringings, in case you've forgotten."

With a shrug, Jorah returned to the glossy pages of his magazine. "As you wish, your Grace," he said. "I just think - given that this meeting is taking the form of a family reunion of sorts, shouldn't you leave the calvary at home at first?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The boy's about to find out that you want to make him the heir to an entire country. It's got to be a bit much to take in. I feel that it might be easier for him to process if you don't present the Royal Guard at the same time."

Jorah had a point, Dany thought, as she picked up her own tablet and began scrolling through her calendar. Missandei had booked their party into the Beverly Rose, a legendary Los Angeles hotel owned by the Tyrell Hospitality Corporation. She had stayed at the Tyrell Paris the previous year and found the accommodations acceptable, if not necessarily decorated to her taste (the colors were too muted, so many soft golds and taupes - she had always preferred bold colors in decor herself). But the Beverly Rose was a landmark that dated back to the days of Old Hollywood - Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Katherine Hepburn had all lived there for a period of time, and Jayne Mansfield had posed for a legendary photo shoot in the pool at her prime. Dany's inner romantic had been considerably diminished over the years, but even the small part that remained enjoyed the significance of landmarks with rich, scandalous histories.

In truth, she had chosen to fly to Los Angeles, rather than bringing the boy to her, out of a secret desire for a vacation. Being the ruling queen of a small European nation was not without its drawbacks, and the severe lack of time off was one of them. She hadn't had any significant amount of time to herself since assuming the throne five years ago, and this particular mission seemed like a ripe opportunity for a little R and R. _Perhaps I could even find time to fit in a facelift or a course of fillers_ , she thought, as she flipped her tablet to the camera app and examined her weary eyes on the screen. Finding a good doctor at home was proving an undue hardship - Cersei Lannister had snapped up the best plastic surgeon in Westeros, probably put him on her brother's company payroll so that she could write off her lip injections with Lannister Investments money. And while most of the aristocratic women she knew all had a doctor squirreled away in France or Dorne, where they could fly out and spend a week under wraps, having their entire faces touched up (lest they begin to melt, like a wax-museum statue outside on a hot day), Dany's own diplomatic duties more often than not prevented this kind of indulgence. Her five years on the throne had already aged her more than she liked, and it felt deeply unfair that the same damn job that was causing her to look so old was the one that prevented her from being able to do anything about it.

More than anything, she longed for freedom. Back in her twenties, she'd spent most of her time traveling. She missed it desperately. Drogo was a wonderful husband, loving and caring in every way, but perhaps one of the best things about their marriage was the amount of freedom it afforded her. If she wanted to jet down to Ibiza for a weekend, or take off to Japan to see the cherry blossoms in bloom, or spend New Year's Eve looking at the aurora borealis in Iceland, she need only say the word. Drogo's family had oil money - lots of it - and weren't shy about throwing it around. The private planes, the boats, the extravagant homes in cities across the world; it was just their way of living, and he inherited every dime of it.

For six years, their relationship was bliss. True, they married young - the global press was scandalized when Princess Daenerys, fresh-faced and just out of Oxford, eloped with the son of a Dothraki oil sheik. But despite their families' differences (more than once, holidays had ended with her husband and Viserys coming to blows, but then, a Dothraki holiday party without bloodshed was a rare occurrence indeed), they made it work. He was her everything. Her moon and stars.

And then the miscarriages happened. And then she thought they'd gotten a pregnancy to stick, only to go into preterm labor and deliver a stillborn child, far too young to have ever had a chance at survival in the first place. And then, scarcely after they'd settled on an urn for their son's ashes, Drogo got sick. Pancreatic cancer. By the time he finally saw a doctor for the shooting pain in his abdomen, they told him he had only six to eight weeks left. He only got four.

Dany was twenty-seven when the loss hit her, and it left her reeling. Viserys had gone and gotten himself killed just a year before. Some sort of high-stakes poker match gone terribly wrong, said Interpol, that had ended with the Prince of Westeros lying in a pool of blood and money, his skull caved in like a melon that had been dropped from some great height. Dany had not mourned her brother, not terribly. His death, and even the losses of her children, had not prepared her for the total, all-encompassing feeling of grief that racked her body and soul for three straight years. True, there were good days and bad ones, days when she felt almost normal until the ache of loneliness hit her from an unexpected place. But three years later, Rhaegar and his family were killed in a helicopter crash in the Swiss Alps, skiing over Christmas, and suddenly, there was no time for grief.

Suddenly, she could no longer be the princess that captivated the tabloids, wearing a white bikini on a yacht in Greece or throwing a massive charity ball to rub elbows and kiss the cheeks of movie stars. Suddenly, she had to be the queen. She had to do what queens do.

She had to rule.

The plane bounced up and down as it hit a patch of turbulence. Dany dug her nails back into the armrest, willing herself not to show her unrest. Beside her, Jorah lowered his magazine.

"Are you feeling all right?" His voice was casual, relaxed, and she could tell he knew she was on edge. She didn't mind his familiarity, though. She always preferred him like this - it was far more comfortable for her when he dropped the honorifics and simply addressed her, not as his queen or his grace, but as Dany.

"I'm fine," she said. "Truly."

“Good,” he said. “I thought we could discuss how we’re going to approach this… meeting.”

Dany frowned. “What, do you assume I don’t already have a plan? You think too little of me.”

“I don’t assume anything,” Jorah said. “But these circumstances are highly unusual, aren’t they? We’re about to make an offer that will change this boy’s life irrevocably. We have no idea how he’ll react.”

“We also have no idea what he knows, or how much he’s already figured out about his own destiny,” Dany said fiercely. “Isn’t it a bit insulting to assume he’s been kept completely in the dark all this time? Maybe in the Middle Ages, or even a hundred years ago, a king could father a child who would grow up completely unaware of his own lineage, but for God’s sake, all he has to do is pull up Rhaegar’s page on Wikipedia and the entire scandal is right there.”

“But Rhaegar chose never to release the boy’s name or birth certificate to the press,” Jorah countered. “All _anyone_ knows is that your brother eloped with an American artist and fathered a child. Lyanna’s name never even came out. What if he has no idea? What if, just for argument’s sake, we assume the people who raised him, this producer and his wife, what if those people never told him anything about his father?”

“How would they explain the trust fund in his name? The one that’s been paying his way through that private school they’re sending him to?” Dany asked. “The mother was some sort of contemporary artist. There’s no way she could have left behind much of a nest egg.”

Jorah shrugged. “The specifics are none of my business,” he said. “All I’m trying to say is that, based on what information we’ve been able to find on the boy, he seems to have no idea. His social media history didn’t include a single reference to Westeros, your brother, you, or anyone else in the royal family. If he did know, don’t you think he’d be talking about it?”

Dany bit her lip. He had a point, as ridiculous as it did seem. What kind of parents, even of the surrogate variety, would be able to keep a detail like this under wraps for sixteen years? Even the very concept struck her as impossible, particularly in an era when any bit of information was immediately accessible online. But if the boy _was_ entirely ignorant, which suddenly seemed more and more like a possibility, she’d have her work cut out for her – not that she expected him to balk at the idea of being named as her heir, but it would take far more work to turn him into an acceptable prince.

She sighed as she sat back in her seat, suddenly much wearier. “God, I hope he’s not an idiot,” she murmured. Only Jorah could hear her. He laughed, but it wasn’t really a joke.

**Jon**

It was an unseasonably warm evening for October, even for L.A. The warm sunset air was occasionally stirred by a slight breeze, and it felt incredibly pleasant.

The rest of the family had long retired to the air conditioning inside, but Jon had always had a higher tolerance for heat than they did. He took his homework outside and sat on the patio. The soft splashing of the pool waterfall, the low chirp of crickets in the yard, and the occasional sound of the neighbors' cars pulling into their garages combined, creating an exceptionally pleasant soundtrack of ambient noise as he worked through a set of calculus problems.

As he stared at a particularly tough equation, his mind began to wander. It was already October 6th and the school year wasn't going any better than the last. He couldn't blame his teachers, or even, really, his friends. The sense of ennui and disappointment he felt was strictly the purview of his life with the Starks.

It wasn't really their fault, either. Logically, he understood that. They tried their best to make him a part of the family, and with five other kids, it was easy enough to blend in. When Ned and Cat threw dinner parties, they'd joke around, pretend to forget the names of their own kids: "Get the door, Michael, or Burt, or whoever you are," Ned would say in the direction of whoever was closest. Yet for sixteen years, Jon had only ever felt like an outsider. Robb and Arya and Sansa and Bran and Rickon could go from being at each other's throats to offering to help hide a body in a moment - typical sibling things. But when Jon joined in and joked around with them, there was always that split second of hesitation before they acknowledged it.

The back door slammed, and a short body ran out into the yard. Jon could tell from the galloping stride that it was Arya, the way she always ran like a Jack Russell terrier trying to keep up with a Labrador: her legs making twice the normal amount of movements in the same amount of time. She was quick as hell, as the row of track and soccer trophies in her bedroom testified, but Jon always laughed a little when he watched her run.

"Ugh," Arya said by way of greeting. She pulled off her t-shirt and shorts, revealing a Westwood School swim team one-piece, sat down on the ground, and dipped her feet into the pool. "Sansa's being a jerk again."

"Oh yeah?" Jon asked. "What now?"

"She accused me of spilling nail polish on her new sweater. I told her I don't even wear nail polish, but she didn't believe me. She said I did it on purpose because I’m jealous that she wears nice things and I just, quote, ‘Schlump around in soccer shorts all the time.’" Arya pulled her feet back, stood up, and walked around to the deep end. "She told me I ruin everything."

"I'm sure she didn't mean it," Jon said. It was true. Sansa could be a bit spoiled, but she was a sweet kid at heart. 

Arya sighed, and abruptly jumped into the pool, pulling her knees up into a cannonball position. She splattered the pages of Jon's notebook as she landed. He groaned as she bobbed to the surface, trying to blot the water off, but the ink from his ballpoint was already starting to bleed.

"You got my paper wet," he called as she paddled to the edge.

Arya made a face. "Sorry," she said. "Are you gonna yell at me too? 'Cause I really don't know if I could handle another fight right now. I'm tapped out."

“I think I can let it slide,” Jon said. “But just this once. Is everybody else still inside?”

“Robb went over to Theon’s after dinner,” said Arya, treading water in front of the pool ladder. “He’s been spending a lot of time over there. He always comes back smelling like weed.”

Jon snorted. “How do you even know what weed smells like?” he asked. “You’re like, thirteen.”

“Only for two more weeks! I’m _basically_ fourteen,” she complained. “And I only know because Hot Pie’s mom and dad have that RV in their backyard that we’re not allowed to go inside, and he said that’s where they go to get high. _Gosh_ , Jon.”

“ _Gosh_ , yourself,” he said, snickering. “And of course that kid’s parents are stoners. Who the fuck calls their kid ‘Hot Pie’? What’s his real name, anyway?”

“Melvin,” Arya said. “But you seriously cannot call him that. He gets so mad.”

“I don’t really think _Hot Pie’s_ that much better of a name, but sure,” said Jon. Arya took a deep breath, then ducked underneath the water and pushed off from the side of the pool. He watched her glide across the bottom like a stingray, illuminated by the lights on the pool walls, and finally surface at the shallow end, popping up through the waterfall. 

The back door slammed again, and in the fading light of the quickly setting sun, Jon could see Ned striding across the lawn, wearing khaki shorts and a promotional t-shirt for a film he had produced the previous year, with the Direwolf Pictures logo printed across the front. He gave his uncle a wave from the poolside picnic table. “What’s up?” he asked, as Ned got closer.

Ned frowned slightly. “You’re doing your homework outside?”

“I was,” Jon said. “When the light was still good. I was just about to go back in, I think.”

His uncle shook his head. “Actually, this is fine. I have something I need to talk to you about. Arya, can you do us a favor and give us some privacy?”

“Why?” Arya asked curiously. “Is it about Sansa and her stupid sweater? I already told her, I didn’t do it.”

“What? No. Whatever this is about, you and your sister need to work it out between yourselves,” he said, sounding exhausted. “I need to talk to Jon in private for a few minutes. It’s too dark to be in the pool by yourself, anyway. You could hit your head.”

“That makes no sense,” Arya pouted as she clambered up the pool ladder. Her wet feet slapped on the concrete and left size-six footprints behind as she ran, shivering, to where she’d dropped her clothes. “And I don’t have a towel. No fair.”

“You would have had to get out sooner or later,” Ned said. She stuck her tongue out at him over her shoulder as she ran back toward the house, dripping all over the lawn as she went. “And make sure you don’t get the kitchen floor wet again, Sansa just mopped!”

Jon snorted. “I bet she _loved_ that. ‘Everyone else has a housekeeper! Why do we have to do chores? Margaery Tyrell has a personal maid just to clean her room!’”

“You’ll all thank me when you get to college and you’re the only kids in your dorm who know how to do laundry or make a bed,” Ned said darkly. “Speaking of which, have you thought at all about college lately?”

“I guess, not really,” Jon shrugged. “I want to go somewhere on the East Coast, that’s all I know. Boston, maybe. But I still have a whole year.”

“It’s never too early,” said his uncle. “But that’s not why I came out here to talk to you. I actually just got off the phone with your aunt, Jon.”

He paused expectantly, as if this were a significant announcement, but Jon just shrugged, confused. “Aunt Cat? Isn’t she, like, right in the living room?” Thursday night was _Scandal_ night; it was unusual for Cat to give up the TV to any of the kids all evening. (“This is my reward for making it through another week with all of you,” she’d sigh at whoever dared disturb her, pouring herself a glass of red wine and turning up the volume. “Now go to bed. Mama’s got a date with Olivia Pope.”)

Ned shook his head. “Not my wife,” he said. “Your other aunt, on your father’s side. Daenerys Stormborn.”

“Who?” Jon asked, screwing up his face in confusion at the obviously foreign name. “Have I ever even met her?”

“You have not,” said Ned. “She lives in Europe, and doesn’t make it to America often. Her line of work doesn’t give her much free time. But she’s in town, and she said she’d like to meet you, or meet _with_ you, I believe is how she phrased it.”

“Why, though?” he asked. “Like, I’ve never even heard of this lady before. I’ve never even talked to anyone on my dad’s side of the family. They didn’t even want to acknowledge me, right? I can’t be that important to them.”

Ned sighed heavily. There was something he seemed to be holding back, but Jon resisted the urge to pry. Ned could seldom be coaxed into saying more than he wanted to. “I know. It’s… sudden, and unusual, though from what she explained to me, her reasoning seems to make sense. Your aunt has suffered a great deal of familial loss over the past few years, and it seems that you’re all she has left. She said she wants to connect with you before it’s too late.”

“Oh.” Jon suddenly got a flash of this aunt – probably old and decrepit, some sort of old British spinster, probably. He wondered if she’d knit him sweaters and make him eat marmite. The idea of hanging out with some old lady he’d never met, just because they were technically related, didn’t really appeal to him. But he knew his guilty conscience would inevitably kick in if he blew her off, and wasn’t he just lamenting his own lack of family connections? He was in no place to be turning down potential relatives, even if they were just some spinster aunt from Europe. “I guess that’s okay,” he said. “When does she want to meet me?”

“She told me she’d like to take you out for lunch sometime in the next few days,” said Ned. “I mentioned that your school had half-a-day tomorrow, and she said that was perfect, so she’ll probably pick you up at Westwood tomorrow afternoon.”

“Pick me up? Why?”

“I’m not sure, but she insisted,” Ned shrugged. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Jon? You don’t have to go through with it.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m cool with it,” Jon said. “I actually think it’s pretty awesome. Some aunt from Europe that I’ve never met wants to take me out? I wonder if that means she’s leaving me everything in her will or something?”

Ned paused before answering, and Jon once again got the feeling that his uncle was holding something back. But he only said, “I wouldn’t lead with that question when she introduces herself.”

“I won’t,” Jon snorted. “I have _some_ manners, c’mon. I can be _very_ sophisticated.”

“Let’s hope,” Ned said cryptically, and clapped him on the shoulder as he stood up from the table. “Now, honestly, you should come inside, you’re going to ruin your eyes trying to work out here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY THE EXPOSITION'S OVER AND NOW THE REAL FUN BEGINS. Stick with me, it's gonna be a wild ride from here on out, you guys.


	4. Chapter 4

**Jon**

Friday started like any normal morning: Jon found himself locked out of the bathroom for half an hour, choking down scrambled eggs - a food he loathed - for breakfast, and rifling through the pile of clothes on his bedroom floor in search of his school jacket. The weather had actually turned slightly chilly overnight, a sharp departure from the warm sun of the previous afternoon, and he thought he might as well look sharp to meet his aunt. When he finally found it, buried beneath a pile of flannels, it was wrinkled beyond help, but he shrugged and put it on anyway.

As he ran downstairs, he passed Bran and Rickon, who were fighting about something - he couldn't quite tell what, but managed to make out the words "It was your turn!" "I did it last week!" In the dining room, Aunt Cat was dressed to go out, in a sleek black pantsuit over a blue silk blouse. She was simultaneously sorting laundry and arguing with Sansa, who had her hands on her hips and looked incensed.

“But Dad _told me_ I could go!” Sansa said, obviously livid. “Literally everybody's going to be there and he told me I could go weeks ago!”

“I don't care what your father told you weeks ago,” Cat said. “You know how I feel about you going to parties where there won't be adult supervision. You don't know what might happen and neither do I.”

“But nothing's going to happen, that’s the point!” Sansa moaned. “Margaery's brother is going to be there the whole time, and he's in college –“

“Exactly," Cat said. "I'm not going to let you go to some house party where the only person in charge is some frat boy. Forget it.”

“Loras isn't like that, Mom. He's really sweet,” pleaded Sansa. “I promise, nothing bad’s going to happen! I'm just going to hang out with my friends, I don't drink or anything, you know that –“

“I said no,” said Cat, with an immense sense of finality. “I can't stop you from going to the game tonight, but there will be no afterparty, understood? You go to the game, you cheer, and you come home straight afterward.”

Sansa groaned as she stomped toward the door. “I can't believe this,” she shouted. “You literally ruin everything for me.”

Cat rolled her eyes at Jon. “She'll get over it,” she said. “I told her I didn't want her going to some party thrown by that Tyrell girl after the game tonight.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Jon remarked. “She seemed upset.”

“It's not that I don't trust her, it's that I don't trust those friends of hers,” Cat shrugged. “Sansa's a good kid, but I want her to stay that way.”

“Oh, Margaery seems okay,” Jon said, as her laser-white smile and long hair sprung to mind. “She's really nice...”

Cat snorted as she dropped the last of Bran's shirts into the pile. “Nice or not, I don't want my fifteen-year-old going to an unsupervised party at the Tyrell house,” she said. “God only knows where those parents are half the time. I remember Margaery showing up to her eighth grade graduation in a Versace dress cut up to here and down to there, and when I asked whether her mother had read the graduation dress code, she said her mother wasn't even there! Neither was her father. Apparently her grandmother's chauffeur dropped her off before taking off to Palm Springs for the day. She ended up asking Robb if Ned and I could give her a ride home. I'm telling you, the Tyrells are trouble, that whole family. I'm sorry, Jon, I'm rambling, did you need something?”

Jon shifted his weight and nodded. “Uh, yeah, I was actually wondering if I could try driving again today. You know, for practice? I have my test again in two months.”

But Cat was already shaking her head no. “I'm sorry, sweetie, but I have to drop the boys off and go,” she said. “I'm meeting an agent to talk about pitching a new memoir - I'm thinking something along the lines of a witty tell-all, Nora Ephron meets the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, that sort of thing. If you're up early tomorrow, though, you can drive Rickon and Arya to soccer, how's that?”

Jon shrugged. It was worth a try. “That's fine. Good luck with your meeting,” he said politely. “I'll catch a ride with Robb again today.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” said Cat. “By the way - Ned told me all about your aunt, said she finally decided to get into contact? Have fun today.”

“Thanks,” Jon said absently as he slung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. “I'm not sure when I'll be home, but it shouldn't be late.”

As he walked out to the driveway and toward Robb’s car, he noticed Arya sitting in the front seat. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest and she was staring daggers into the windshield. Sansa sat in the back, hunched over her phone and tapping away angrily. Jon slid into the back and reached over the seat to tap Arya on the shoulder. “What's up?”

“Ask her!” Arya exploded, jerking one thumb back to point at Sansa. “She’s the one who’s acting like a massive ass-”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Sansa said, looking up from her phone with a fierce look on her face. “All I said was that you should brush your hair –”

“You called me a _dog_!”

“I said that you _looked like_ a dog, it’s two different things, oh my God, Arya –”

“Both of you, shut up,” Robb said as he swung into the driver’s seat, looking exhausted. “I was up until 3 doing homework last night. You’re my family, I love you, but you all need to shut up before I strangle you all.” 

Jon rolled his eyes as they pulled out of the driveway, but said nothing. Down the block, Robb pulled over to idle in front of the Greyjoys’ house, and leaned on the horn until Theon opened his front door and jogged down the lawn, wearing mirrored aviators and a grimace. Jon scooted over into the middle seat as Theon opened the back left door of the Volvo and slid in next to him.

“What’s up, virgin?” Theon grinned as he slammed the door beside him. “How’s it going, Sansa?”

Sansa leaned forward to give him a shy smile. “I’m really good. Thanks, Theon.”

“You look good. Really good,” Theon said, letting his sunglasses slide down his nose. “You know, I always meant to ask, is that your natural hair color?”

Robb groaned from the front seat. “You’re not hitting on my little sister in front of me. I don’t _have_ to drive you, Theon.”

“Whatever,” Theon said. He turned to Jon. “So, what’s up with you? How’s that girl you were hanging around with last year? The redhead?”

“Ygritte? Oh, she’s… around.” Truthfully, Jon had no idea where she was. They’d dated for three weeks, before she found out he’d lied about – well, a lot of things, actually. She proceeded to humiliate him in P.E. – threw a basketball at his head – and dumped him just before winter formal. “We haven’t talked in a long time. Why?”

“Oh, I just heard you were looking for a date for homecoming,” Theon said. “I was gonna offer to, you know, lend a hand, throw some support in your direction…”

“He’s lying,” Robb said from the driver’s seat. “Ros started dating some guy on the football team and he’s looking for another redhead to prove that he can, quote, ‘get better.’”

“Oh,” said Jon and Sansa in unison.

Theon pushed his aviators back up his nose. “Fuck you, Robb,” he shot back. “I’m not the one who tried to –”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Robb said forcefully. “Seriously. All of you. Just shut your fucking mouths for like ten minutes or else I’m going to run this car off the road.” He had a way of channeling Ned when he got this angry – his voice somewhere between a bark and a command – and as the rest of the car fell silent, Jon could hear his cousin breathing heavily through his nose from the front seat. He had never in his life been more grateful to see the Westwood School parking lot.

The rest of the day flew by, with shortened periods to allow for an optional pep rally and a slew of teachers’ meetings in the afternoon. When the bell rang to signal the end of seventh period, Jon slammed his notebook shut and crammed his things in his bag. Normally, he’d hang around, but today he walked quicker than usual to his locker, twisted the combination and tossed his calc and world civ books in his bag without dawdling. A message from Sam popped up on his phone: “Are u going 2 the rally?”

Jon made a face instinctively. The idea of sitting through an entire pep rally sounded distinctly unpleasant – he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d rather spend an hour doing less. As he hesitated over his phone, another message from Sam came through: “M will b their”

_Of course she’ll be there_ , Jon thought, she’s cheer captain and I’d be on the bleachers, and I am not ready for my life to literally become a Taylor Swift song. Instead, he tapped out a message of his own, taking care to use proper punctuation and spell out all the words: “Can’t. Got to have lunch with my aunt. Sorry man.”

“Ok,” came the reply. “ill c u later then.”

“Right,” typed Jon. He stowed his phone in his pants pocket and slammed his locker door. 

Outside in the parking lot, he glanced around, shielding his eyes from the sun. Ned said that his aunt would pick him up from school that afternoon, but he realized as he waited that he had no idea who he was waiting for. He craned his neck as he looked across the lot, but none of the Botoxed faces of parents and sad-looking housekeepers awaiting the other students looked like they could be related to him.

As he stood on the curb, squinting into the sun, a black limo with two small red-and-black flags attached to the antennas pulled up beside him. The backseat window rolled down, and a chiseled blond man, probably somewhere in his early fifties, leaned out. He looked important – probably an actor, judging by his sharp black suit and scruffy beard. But when he spoke, it was in a posh-sounding European accent, and he asked, “Are you Jon Snow, then?”

Jon nodded, somewhat confused. “Yeah.”

“Good. Come on in,” said the man. “I’m Jorah Mormont. I work for your Aunt Daenerys.”

Jon briefly considered the consequences of obeying. Getting in a strange man’s car was, like, number one on the list of things they teach you not to do as early as kindergarten. Getting in a limousine with a guy who looked and sounded suspiciously like a Bond villain? That was the _definition_ of “stranger danger.” But on the other hand, his time in limos had been unfortunately limited – Ned occasionally made use of them, but only before film premieres, and his movies tended to be tedious R-rated war dramas, so the kids were rarely invited to those events. And this Jorah guy seemed cool, all slick and Eurotrash-y with his beard and sunglasses. And he had his phone on him. So what was the worst thing that could happen?

So he shrugged, and got in the limo.

They made shockingly good time on the road, swerving through L.A. traffic like a hot knife through butter. “Wow,” Jon remarked, as he glanced over at Jorah for the umpteenth time. “Your driver is amazing.”

“I’ll give him your regards,” said Jorah stiffly.

Jon nodded. “Cool,” he said. “So where are we going?”

“Your aunt would like to have tea with you,” said Jorah. “She’s currently attending to a bit of business at the Westerosi Consulate in Hancock Park. She wishes for you to join her there for the afternoon.”

“Ah,” said Jon. “Cool.” He took out his phone, switched it to camera mode, and offered it to Jorah. “Um, if it’s okay, could you take a picture of me… you know… in the backseat of a limo, and everything?” When Jorah gingerly took the phone, he spread out his arms across the backseat and squinted into the lens, pouting slightly.

“Are you ready?” asked Jorah.

“What? Yeah.”

“Why are you making that face?”

“What face?”

“You look as though you’re straining to read very small print on a very large page.”

Jon shook his head. “What? No. This is how you pose. C’mon.”

Jorah sighed dryly. “As you wish.”

When the limo pulled up to the consulate driveway, Jorah popped his sunglasses back on as the driver opened the door. “Mr. Mormont,” said the driver as they both jumped out. “Mr… Snow, is it?”

“It is,” Jorah called from over his shoulder. “Follow me, Jon.” 

Jon trotted behind the older man up the front lawn to the white marble mansion. As he stumbled over the lawn, a loudspeaker nestled in a tree crackled to life, announcing in three languages, “Stay off the grass!”

“Sorry,” he muttered, jumping back onto the sidewalk. Jorah didn’t seem to crack a smile as they walked into the lobby, where they were met by a young woman in a white blouse with a pointed collar and a navy blue skirt. Her halo of dark brown curls bobbed around her head as she nodded a greeting to them both. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mormont,” she said in a serious tone. She had a professional-sounding English accent and her heels made a clicking sound on the hardwood floors as she approached. “Did you find traffic all right?”

“It was fine. Nothing serious,” said Jorah. “How is she?”

“She’s already personally addressed one stranded traveler’s passport issue so far this afternoon,” said the woman. “You know how she loves to do that.”

“Nothing like shaking hands with the common people to give her a buzz,” sighed Jorah in agreement. “Thank you, Missandei. Are we all ready?”

“Tea is about to be served in the garden,” nodded Missandei. “I’ll escort you in.”

“Just the boy, if that’s all right,” said Jorah. “I’ve got business of my own to get sorted this afternoon.”

“Right,” said Missandei. “Well, then. Jon, is it?” Jon nodded back at her. She really was very pretty. “Follow me, then.”

As they headed down the hallway of the consulate, Jon’s head whipped back and forth, eagerly taking it all in. He’d never been anywhere like this before, aside from the time the family had toured the United Nations while visiting New York. It wasn’t exactly bustling, but the place looked incredibly fancy, with rich paintings and statues everywhere he turned. Just as they stopped outside a door that led to the back garden, Missandei’s phone began to ring, and she grabbed for it, cursing under her breath.

“Oh, no. I _really_ need to take this,” she said as she glanced at the screen. “Go on in, Jon, your aunt’s expecting you. Tell her Tyrion’s secretary called regarding the Blackwater Commemoration Ceremony flower issue, she’ll understand.” Without a further word, she was gone, bolting down the hall as she answered her phone. Even more confused, Jon laid a hand on the gold doorknob and hesitantly pushed it open.

He had been expecting some sort of old maid, at least in her sixties, but the woman who sat at the table outside couldn’t have been older than 35. She had silver-blonde hair pulled back in a low bun, and she wore a cerulean blue dress with a dramatic V-neck. She was, if Jon was honest with himself, way hotter than he had expected, and it was only the fact that this was his aunt that kept his brain from elaborating on this train of thought. But there was also something strangely familiar about her – he got the feeling that he’d seen her somewhere before, but he couldn’t put his finger on where.

As he stepped into the garden, she smiled, and rose from her chair gracefully. “You’re Jon? Of course you are, look at you,” she said, in the same Westerosi accent that Jorah spoke with. “Welcome. I’m your Aunt Dany. Come in, join me, don’t be shy – let me have a look at you, then.” She gave him a once-over, up and down, and frowned slightly as her eyes hovered on his outerwear. Jon suddenly felt very aware of every wrinkle in his clothing, especially next to her flawlessly pressed dress. 

“So,” he said as he took a seat across from her at the table. “My uncle said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

“Of course,” she said as an attendant busied himself, pouring them both a cup of tea. Jon spooned a pile of sugar into his cup and stirred it in, the gold edges of his spoon clinking against the fine china of the cup. “Jon, I hope it’s not presumptive of me to say that what I’m about to talk to you about will have a great impact on your life.”

“Well, I’ve already failed my driving test once, so do your worst,” Jon said, chancing a sip. Nope. The tea was still steaming hot.

His aunt didn’t seem to get the joke. “Jon, have you ever heard of Rhaegar Jaehaerys Aerys Targaryen?”

“Nope.”

“He was the crown prince of Westeros.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “What about him?”

Aunt Dany took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. “Well, Rhaegar Jaehaerys Aerys Targaryen… was your father.”

Jon snorted as he attempted another sip of the cooling tea. “Yeah, sure. Okay, Aunt Dany. My father was the prince of Westeros. Awesome. Good joke.”

“Why would I joke about something like that?”

“Um, because if my father were a prince, that would make me…” Jon trailed off, bewildered.

“Exactly,” said his aunt, her pale lilac eyes shining as she lifted her own willow-patterned teacup. “You’re not just Jon Snow. You are John Snow Rhaegos Stark Targaryen, Prince of Westeros.”

Jon’s mouth dropped open as he set down his teacup with far more force than was necessary. “Shut _up_.”

**Dany**

Dany set down her own cup, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Shut up? I beg your pardon?”

Jon shook his head. “I don't mean 'shut up' shut up, I mean –”

“I understand the slang, thank you,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Nevertheless, Jon, you are the prince. And I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Westeros.”

Across the table, Jon was shaking his head, as if an annoying gnat was buzzing around his head, and flipping his shaggy hair about his eyes was the only way to displace it. “Okay, but – like – here’s the thing. Why would you pick _me_ to be your prince?”

Dany sighed. She wasn’t inclined to dive into her own medical history with a teenage boy she had barely met, so she chose her words carefully. “When your father died, I assumed the throne,” she said. “But I was recently informed that I cannot bear children of my own –”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jon interrupted.

“Thank you,” she said sharply. “Being that your father left no other surviving children, and my other brother never bore any children of his own, you are the natural heir. You are royal by blood, Jon. You can rule.”

Jon shook his head even more furiously at this. “Oh, my God, nope, no, uh-uh,” he stammered. “Nope. Wrong guy. You – I never lead _anyone_. Not at Cub Scouts, not at school. I’ve never even been captain of the kickball team in gym class. Look, Queen Daenerys, I’m sorry, but my highest expectation in life is to go to college, get a job at a record label, and stay behind the scenes forever. Invisible, I can do. I’m good at that. Everything else… not so much.”

“Jon, I also had… _other expectations_ for my life,” Dany said gently. “I grew up third in line for the throne. Never, not once in my wildest dreams, did I assume I would end up crowned by my thirties. But when life thrusts these challenges at us, we must meet them head on. You’re as much a Targaryen as I am, and I know that you are, deep down, capable of accepting this honor. And seeing as you are the legal heir – the only heir – to the throne, we will accept the challenge of turning you into the prince that you are.” Off Jon’s look of total confusion, she added, “Oh, it’s not all as scary as it sounds. You’ll study languages, history, finance, art, political science. My associate Jorah and I will teach you everything you need to know – how to talk, dress, and behave like a prince. And given time, I think you’ll find the Red Palace in Westeros an incredibly pleasant place to live.”

“ _Wait wait wait_.” Jon held up both hands, the international line for ‘slow the hell down’. “ _Live_? In Westeros? A country I barely knew existed until I had to cram for a World Civ test about it on Monday?”

“What immaculate timing, then!” Dany said pleasantly. “I couldn’t have asked for it better – our history will be fresh in your mind, then.”

“Look,” said Jon, obviously flustered. “I just – I don’t know – I’m not a prince. I can’t even grow a beard, or even talk to the girl I like. I am _so_ not cut out for this job. I absolutely, positively, adamantly refuse to move to and rule a country – and you know what else?” He stood up from their table, and picked up his worn-out canvas messenger bag, which was crammed so full of textbooks that Dany could see the seams beginning to split. “I – don’t – _want_ to be a prince!”

As he ran off, Dany sighed. Jorah, who had just stepped out into the garden, held the door open for Jon as he ran past, and gave Dany a questioning glance as he approached. “I assume it went well?” he asked.

Dany shook her head. “Maybe he just needs more time. Jorah – will you help me?”

He frowned. “Your Grace – I’m the head of your Council of State – you want me to be a… chauffer and babysitter?”

“Not really,” she said apologetically. “But… he’ll need advice. Not from me, but from someone who knows what it’s like to be a man in power. I don’t want him picking up bad habits from Tyrion and Robert as soon as he meets them – we don’t need yet another prince who is a drunken whoremongerer.”

Jorah sighed. “The things I do for you, Daenerys,” he said, but not without affection in his voice.


	5. Chapter 5

**Dany**

Dany was pleased as she walked into her suite at the Beverly Rose. Her luggage had already been dropped off, her clothes steamed and hung in the closet, and the bed linens turned down in the way she preferred. She was severely jet-lagged, and after spending the morning at the Consulate, her body was telling her she needed sleep, even as she resisted the urge. With a theatrical yawn, she swiped at her face with a rosewater-scented towelette, tugged at her hair to let it loose, and slipped out of her blue Jenny Packham, throwing it haphazardly over the back of the chair as she shrugged into a plush bathrobe, monogrammed with her own initials and the royal crest. A nice touch from the hoteliers, she thought, as she took a seat on the bed, and then, gracelessly as the day she was born, flopped back to lie sideways across the mattress.

 _I'll only close my eyes for a moment_ , she thought resolutely, letting her eyelids drift shut. The next thing she knew, Missandei was standing over her, phone in hand and looking distressed.

“Your Grace?” Her secretary sounded cautious, as she peered down at the queen sprawled across the luxe hotel linens. “Are you all right?”

“Mmmf.” Dany nodded and swiped the sleep from her eyes before opening them all the way. “I'm fine - just thought I'd have a quick nap. What time is it?”

“Half past nine, Your Grace,” said Missandei apologetically. “I'm truly sorry to have woken you.”

Dany sat up groggily, shaking her head. “No - the dinner reservations - it was going to be an entire visit –”

“We can postpone that,” said Missandei soothingly. “Mr. Mormont is outside; he asked if you're available. Shall I give you a moment to freshen up?”

With a grateful nod, Dany eased off the bed, suddenly feeling much more alert. It never took her long to wake up after a nap. She rifled through her closet, and selected a pair of loose black palazzo pants and a soft black blouse, putting her monogrammed robe back on over the top. “I'm decent!” she called to Missandei, who opened the door and allowed Jorah into the suite.

“So these're the royal bedchambers now,” Jorah remarked as he took a seat in an ivory leather chair. “A bit smaller than what you’re used to, I suppose, but larger than mine, so no harm done."

“Well, I am the queen, you know,” Dany said dryly as she plopped back onto the bed. “What's on your mind, Jorah?”

“Your nephew,” he said, without preamble. “I’ve been thinking about him since he left today. What happened out in the garden between the two of you, that would cause him to run like that?”

Dany heaved a sigh, twisting her fingers in front of her and picking at a dry piece of skin on the cuticle. “I don't know, truly,” she said. “I phrased our proposition delicately, yet he reacted as though I'd insulted him. He seemed genuinely upset by the offer.”

“Perhaps he wasn't upset,” Jorah said, “so much as overwhelmed. It's a lot that you're asking of him, you know. Even though he'll have years to study and learn the art of diplomacy, those are still years of study he's never even considered. It's a lot to take on at once.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Dany. “But he was quite adamant that he had no interest in ruling. He made his position quite clear.”

“Positions can change.”

“And this one must,” Dany said, “or else Westeros will be without an heir, and the throne will fall into the hands of…”

“Exactly.” Jorah shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands on his kneecap. It was too prim a motion for such a strong-looking man, and Dany held back an amused smile at the sight. “But what else did you think of him, Daenerys?”

In truth, Dany wasn't quite sure what to make of the boy. He was compact and not bad-looking, though his shaggy hairstyle and unprepossessing disposition did not do him justice. She had noticed the way he slouched in his chair, as if to apologize for his very presence. It wasn't princely and, if she were being honest with herself, it disappointed her.

But there was something else, beneath the shaggy curls and the slumping shoulders, that stood out to her. Jon had a certain fierceness in him, one that only came out when he was indignant, perhaps, but she could work with it. If he could be taught to channel that fierceness, and turn it into confidence and prepossession, perhaps all was not lost.

Dany thought about Jon Snow for a few long moments, then carefully chose her words. “I think he has great potential,” she said. “He's not the prince we wanted, true. Not yet, at least. But given time, and study, I think we can turn him into a worthy successor.”

“I thought you might say that,” Jorah said with a wry smile. “But how are you going to go about changing the boy's mind?”

She considered this question as she picked up the room service menu from her bedside table and thumbed through it. The steak tartare sounded good, she thought, but so did the salmon over wilted kale and quinoa. “I think we'll have to pay him a visit tomorrow,” she said as she straightened the collar of her robe. “There's no use wasting time. We'll lay out the situation and make matters perfectly clear.” She tossed the menu aside, her mind made up. “Now, have you eaten dinner yet? No? Stay here with me, we'll have this out over room service.”

“As you wish.” Jorah gestured for the menu, and she handed it magnanimously to him. “Would you like a drink, while we wait?”

“I'm not sure,” Dany said. Truthfully, a stuff drink sounded ideal after the day’s stresses, but as a rule, she avoided drinking with underlings, for fear of what they might pry out of her.

“Well, I'm having a scotch,” said Jorah gruffly, as he stood and headed for the fully-stocked bar across the room.

“Gin martini, then,” Dany said quickly. “Don't waste any room on olives, either, you know how I feel about them.”

“Of course I do,” he replied. “Olives, liverwurst, and saltwater taffy. Never shall they come within a two-foot radius of Her Grace.” His voice was sardonic, and she laughed in spite of herself, knowing that if anyone else tried this sort of banter with her, they’d be reprimanded promptly, if not immediately out of a job. He made her drink and handed it over, and poured a scotch for himself.

“Cheers,” Dany said, for lack of anything better to say. She took a sip and sighed.

She had her work cut out for her. That much was obvious.

****

**Jon**

Jon woke up late the next day. He could tell he'd overslept - the house was empty and quiet, unusual for a Saturday morning. For a moment he ran through the family and where they'd be: Cat would have driven Arya and Rickon to soccer already (damn, he'd promised to drive along with them); Arya played on a highly competitive club team to stay in practice all year. Ned and Bran had probably had a Cub Scout meeting - Jon wasn't sure why Ned had volunteered to help lead Bran's scouts troop, but it seemed to work out well for the both of them. Robb was probably off with Theon somewhere, and Sansa... he had no idea where Sansa might be, actually, but the odds were good that she'd taken off with Jeyne and Margaery and their crowd.

He raised his head off the pillow and checked his clock radio. 11:17. He'd slept half the day away already. For a moment he tried to recall what he's been so angry about when he'd come home last night, and then, like pinpricks of ice through his veins, the memory came flooding back to him.

He was a prince.

It couldn't be real. It had to be some sort of half-remembered nightmare, brought on by cramming for his world civ exam and Bran and Arya bugging Ned about using their Disneyland passes that weekend. He wasn't a prince. He was a normal, boring, completely invisible 16-year-old, the son of an artist who got knocked up by some Eurotrash deadbeat who chose not to stick around after she died giving birth to him. There was no way anything that weird, silver-haired chick had told him yesterday in the consulate gardens had been true.

He reached for his phone, intending to text Sam about the bizarre dream he'd had, when he noticed a steam of notifications from Instagram on his lock screen. He swiped at one of them, and was greeted by a photo he'd posted yesterday: he was posing in the back of a limo, captioned “En route to the Westerosi Consulate. Having tea with some crazy rich European aunt.”

He groaned.

It was true. He was... he didn't want to even think the words. A prince. John Rhaegos Stark Targaryen.

_Royalty, for fuck's sake._

On one strangely disconnected plane, he knew he should technically be happy about this. If Theon Greyjoy found out that he were a prince, he'd be getting fitted for a crown right this minute and probably booking Juicy J for a private show at the palace the next. Most guys - normal guys - would be overwhelmed with positive emotion in a position like this. But, Jon supposed, he must not be like most guys. He wasn't overjoyed, not in the least. Rather, it felt as though the steering wheel of his own life had been yanked from his hands, and he had no hope of getting it back. He wasn't a prince. He was a hijacking victim.

All those years of daydreaming and fantasizing about getting out of the Stark house and doing what he wanted with his own life - ripped away in an instant. The promise of adult independence if he stuck out the next two years without incident - gone. He would never go to college, study business and music marketing, and get a job working for a record label, scouting indie bands and turning them into major-label stars, which had been his dream since sixth grade. He'd never get to fuck around in college, get a random post-grad roommate who sold drugs on the side. He'd never get to make his own decisions or his own mistakes.

_Fuck._

Jon stumbled out of bed and toward the upstairs bathroom. Sleeping in always made him feel gross. When he emerged, wiping toothpaste flecks from the corner of his mouth and running his hand through the unruly mass of curls atop his head, he only felt worse. He couldn't stop thinking about the conversation he'd had yesterday, about how his aunt had seemed so optimistic about his future. Quite frankly, he'd acted like a real dick. He knew he should call her back, apologize, and try to explain his case, but he didn't know what to say. Instead, he padded downstairs to the kitchen in his gym shorts and t-shirt, opened the fridge, and took a long swig of orange juice straight from the jug.

Bright sun was streaming in through the wide kitchen windows as he popped a breakfast burrito in the microwave and hopped up onto the counter while he waited for it to heat. The sunlight reflected off the pool water outside, casting a wave pattern on the window, and even though it was nearly mid-October, it looked like summer outside. It looked far too nice out compared to the dark cloud that settled over Jon's mood. When the microwave beeped, he removed his plate but didn't touch the burrito - he didn't have much of an appetite.

Instead, he took the plate and his phone and walked out to the backyard. It wasn't exactly warm out - there was a crispness to the air, and when he checked the thermometer on the back door, it read 67 degrees. But Jon didn't feel uncomfortable; on the contrary, this was optimal weather, as far as he was concerned. He settled on the wide patio swing at the far end of the backyard, and was about to take a bite of burrito when his phone, which he'd set down beside him, rang.

Sighing, he set down his breakfast and picked up the phone instead. He didn't recognize the number, but he answered anyway. “Hello?”

“Jon?” The voice on the other line was British-y and familiar. “This is Jorah Mormont.”

“Oh,” said Jon, his stomach sinking. “Hi, I guess.”

“Are you home?” Jorah asked brusquely.

Jon sighed. “Yeah, I'm home,” he said. “Why? What's up?”

“The queen and I are on our way to your aunt and uncle's house,” said Jorah. “We'd like to give our discussion from yesterday another try, if that's all right with you.” _And it had better be_ , echoed the unspoken threat in the air. He had no idea what was up with this Jorah Mormont guy, but he could be seriously menacing.

“I'm around,” Jon said shortly. “I'll see you in a bit, then.”

“Cheers,” said Jorah, and hung up. Jon didn’t think to ask whether they knew his address. He assumed they’d find him. He threw his phone down and stuffed half the burrito in his mouth all at once.

About ten minutes later, he was sprawled on the living room couch, now dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt and paging through a Vonnegut paperback Robb had left there. When the doorbell rang, his head snapped up, startled. Apparently they’d been close to the house when they’d called. Jon swung his legs off the couch and dropped the book on the coffee table, face-down and spread open to where he’d stopped reading. 

When he looked out the window beside the front doors, he flinched involuntarily. Aunt Dany and Jorah were flanked by a pair of men in black suits and sunglasses. Private security wasn’t so unusual in this neighborhood, but they usually tried to look less conspicuous than these guys, who looked as though they belonged in the Secret Service. 

Jon unlocked the double doors and opened the one on the right. “Um…” He was immediately at a loss for words. Was he supposed to bow? Salute? Curtsy? Luckily, the queen and her – bodyman? What was Jorah, anyway? – didn’t wait for Jon to invite them in. He stood aside as they strode into the Starks’ grand foyer with one of the two bodyguards trailing them, leaving the other outside.

“This is lovely,” Aunt Dany said, breaking the awkward silence as she looked around the entrance hall. “Are your aunt and uncle home, Jon?”

“Ah… no.” Jon scratched an itch at the nape of his neck as they stood in a semicircle beneath the crystal chandelier in the entryway. “I’m home alone right now, actually. I’m not sure when anyone else will be home…”

“That’s perfect,” said his aunt. “Is there a place where we could sit and talk? Perhaps over a cup of tea?”

_These weirdos and their tea._ “Um, yeah, in the kitchen,” he said. “Follow me, I guess.”

When Aunt Dany and her two companions were seated around the small table in the Starks’ breakfast nook – which was much more comfortable than the grand dining room, if less suited for the particulars of this conversation – Jon busied himself in the kitchen. “We don’t really have a ton of tea,” he said apologetically, holding up two boxes. “My cousin Sansa is the only one who really drinks it. We have green and Earl Grey.”

“Green tea is fine,” said Aunt Dany. “Barristan will see to that, Jon. Come, sit down. We need to have a little talk.”

He slid into his seat at the table, not quite comfortably. “I want to apologize for what happened yesterday,” he said. “I was really rude, I know, and I’m sorry. But I –”

“No need to apologize,” Dany said, cutting him off smoothly. “I can understand your bewilderment, Jon. This is an unusual predicament, and I can sympathize.”

“Okay,” he said.

“But.” Dany took a sip of the tea her bodyguard had slid in front of her. Steam was still rising off the top, but she didn’t seem bothered by the heat. “I need to ask that you take this matter seriously, and try to give it as much thought as you can, Jon. Our goal is not to upset you or ask you to do the impossible. We’ve all been put in an unfortunate position by fate, and all we’re doing is attempting to best play the hand we’ve been dealt, whether we like it or not.”

Jon bristled at this. “So are you saying – you don’t want me to be your prince?”

“Nothing of the sort!” Aunt Dany exclaimed. “But we don’t want to force you into a situation you can’t bear to live with. No one can drive a country into the ground like an unhappy monarch. So with that in mind, we’ve come prepared to offer you a deal.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “Um. What kind of deal?”

Aunt Dany leaned forward, folding her hands around the grey-and-black Direwolf Films promotional mug. “As of now, we have approximately six months to officially name an heir,” she said. “But we think it would be ideal to have you announce your acceptance of the title at the Westerosi Independence Ball in December. Our reasoning is this: the press is hungry. They know I’m here stateside, and they want to know why. We can only keep your identity a secret for so long – hence why we changed cars before driving here. We didn’t want to be followed. But we think we can feasibly keep you hidden for two and a half months, while you learn as much as we can teach you about deportment, our national customs, and the rest of the royal family. If, by December, you have decided that you truly have no interest in the crown, you do not have to accept it. But Jorah and I have talked the matter over at length, and we believe you’ll find that there are upsides to your situation that you probably have not considered.”

“Like what?” Jon asked.

“Job security, for one. Although it would be in your best interest to study economics or political science, you will likely be free after university to pursue passions and pastimes of your own – whether that means travel, graduate education, the arts, or what not. You won’t have to marry until you choose to do so. You’ll meet fascinating people, travel the world, have experiences you’d never dream of. It’s an extraordinary opportunity, Jon. I hope I’m not overselling it.”

His head was spinning, and the more she spoke, the more overwhelmed with information he became. “Um,” he said, searching for the right words. “Okay, I see.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” said Aunt Dany, taking another sip of tea.

“It’s not that,” Jon said. “It’s just… a lot to take in.”

“I understand,” she said. “But you should know that you won’t be doing this on your own. You’ve got the resources of the crown at your disposal. Jorah and I will tutor you personally – I’ve got a personal investment in turning you into a worthy successor, so why shouldn’t I put a little effort into it myself? For the next two and a half months, our sole goal is to turn you into a prince, Jon. What do you say?”

Jon leaned forward across the table, his brow furrowed. Two and a half months. That was only until the end of the semester. He didn’t have to say yes right away. They would keep the whole thing a secret. And frankly, the way his aunt pitched the whole shebang – traveling the world, marrying some hot aristocrat, getting to pursue his passions without having to get a day job – it was beginning to sound genuinely appealing. 

“Okay,” he said slowly, nodding. “I say okay. I accept. I’ll do your – _prince lessons_ thing.”

He held out his hand to shake. Aunt Dany set down her mug, and took his hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

And just as they broke the handshake, Jon heard someone else cough from the corner of the room. Jon looked over his aunt’s shoulder to see Sansa leaning against the doorjamb, still dressed in pajamas and looking thoroughly confused.

But he could tell from the look on her face that she had heard it all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fine. Okay. So apparently, my real dad was Rhaegar Targaryen, which _apparently_ makes me royal by blood, and _apparently_ I’m the only heir to the throne and Aunt Daenerys, who I had never met until three days ago, wants to turn me into a prince so she can present me at the Westeros Independence Ball in three months. And I am literally just as confused as you are, but this has to be a secret, because I do not want to become even more of a freak than I already am, and – why are you smiling like that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, now that the show has taken a long walk off a short pier into Rapeville Swamp, I guess it seems like as good an opportunity as any to get back to this fic. Sorry for the long hiatus and sorry for the shortish chapter this time around - just trying to get back into the swing of things after mostly writing Veep for the past few months.

“You can’t say anything.”  
  
It was the first thing that came to mind. Sansa frowned and shook her head as she glanced around the kitchen. “What? Jon, who is this?”  
  
“This is – uh.” Jon racked his brains, grasping for a lie, but nothing came to mind. With a look at his aunt, a sinking feeling in his stomach confirmed that he might as well just tell the truth. “Sansa, this is my aunt Daenerys. Aunt Daenerys, this is my cousin –”  
  
“Ah, yes, Sansa,” said Daenerys, rising from the table as the rest of the room followed suit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Westeros –”  
  
“No _way_.” Sansa’s voice was barely a whisper, and she looked askance to Jon, who shrugged. “No way! Oh, my God, I don’t know whether – I – this is _bananas_.” She looked horrorstruck and awed, and Jon watched as she attempted a curtsy, the act curtailed by her pajama pants. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what the protocol is,” she babbled. “It’s just – I’m obsessed with modern royalty, obsessed, oh my God, do you know Kate Middleton? I mean, of course you do, but what about the Swedish royals? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking so much, I just, this is so crazy –”  
  
“Right. So.” Jon cut her off brusquely, sliding his tea mug across the table. “Sansa, you can’t say anything about this. I’m so serious.”  
  
“About what?” she asked, eyes still glued to Daenerys, who had retaken her seat at the head of the table, looking bemused. “Why – are you even really related? Or is this some kind of, I don’t know, Make-a-Wish thing?”  
  
“Why would the Queen of Westeros be in our house for Make-a-Wish? Am I dying? Do you know something I don’t?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Sansa. “I’m – I’m really confused. I don’t know what’s going on.”  
  
Jon sighed. “It’s – okay. First off, do you promise you won’t say anything?” he asked for the third time, and this time, she nodded eagerly. “Fine. Okay. So apparently, my real dad was Rhaegar Targaryen, which  _apparently_ makes me royal by blood, and _apparently_ I’m the only heir to the throne and Aunt Daenerys, who I had never met until three days ago, wants to turn me into a prince so she can present me at the Westeros Independence Ball in three months. And I am literally just as confused as you are, but this has to be a secret, because I _do not want_ to become even more of a freak than I already am, and – why are you smiling like that?”  
  
Sansa looked as if she were holding back giggles, and rolled her eyes at the question. “Wait. I’m just trying to process this. _You’re_ a prince.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Like, by blood.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What does that mean? Like, am I technically royalty too?”  
  
“I don’t know, probably not,” Jon sighed. “Why is this about you?”  
  
“I know, I’m sorry, but wouldn’t you have the same question if it were me?” Jon shook his head, but Sansa didn’t seem to notice. “And why don’t you want people to know? I mean, first off, you’re not a freak. But even if you were, wouldn’t this be the best possible outcome for the entire situation? You’re a _prince_! You’d actually be really popular if everyone found out – I mean, we’ve never had a royal at our school, this would be amazing.”  
  
Daenerys cleared her throat slightly, and Sansa jumped, looking over at her. “Sansa, perhaps I can rephrase Jon’s concerns,” she said politely, in her odd, genteel accent. “I believe this has less to do with matters of popularity and more to do with privacy. Is that right?” Jon nodded, and Daenerys continued. “I’m sure you’re aware of how little privacy the royal families have. Our lives have always been lived in public, and they always will be – and I’m sure you know, dear, how dangerous that can be.” She didn’t name names; she didn’t have to. “The fact of the matter is that Jon’s entire life is about to shift on a fundamental level. In two and a half months’ time, he will have gone from being Jon Snow, normal teenager, to Prince John of House Targaryen. It’s a spotlight and level of scrutiny for which the vast majority of people could never adequately prepare.”  
  
“It’s not about being popular,” Jon added. “It’s like I woke up one day and found out I was the newest cast member on the Kardashians, and there’s literally nothing I want less. _God_ , I mean, my Instagram isn’t even public. I don’t spend every waking minute trying to self-promote and make myself famous on the internet. I don’t care. I’m a private person. This, right here, I didn’t choose it, and there’s nothing I can do, but I don’t want it to take over my life before I’m at least kind of ready.”  
  
Sansa fell quiet at that. She tucked her hands into her Westwood Cheer sweatshirt sleeves and pulled her head as far down into the neckline as she could, looking a bit like a turtle, or like she was trying her best to disappear in plain sight. “I get that,” she said at last. “I can respect that. But…”  
  
“What?” Jon asked.  
  
“It’s going to be hard to keep this a secret,” she said. “I mean, it’s 2015. Maybe you could get away with this twenty years ago, but c’mon. Everybody’s gonna be in your business the whole time and with Twitter and Vine and Snapchat and stuff, it’s like, one false move and you’re toast, your entire cover’s blown. Why don’t you let me help?”  
  
“How could you possibly help?”  
  
“I’ll keep your secret,” said Sansa, smiling slightly. “It’ll cost you, but I’ll keep it, and I’ll keep my ears open in case anything starts to come out about you and I’ll spread rumors to counteract anything that does, and trust me, no one will know that you’re a –” she rolled her eyes good-naturedly “– _royalty_ , until you want to come out with it. Deal?”  
  
Jon frowned slightly, looking her over. It didn’t seem like the world’s most foolproof plan, but what could he do? Sansa was offering to help him out, and the alternative – having his secret blasted out over the entire internet, before he’d ever be able to deal with the fame – was definitely a worst-case scenario. And Sansa looked earnest and eager, peering up at him from across the table with a half-smile on her face.  
  
He looked to Daenerys, who only shrugged. Which, frankly, could not have been less helpful.   
  
“Okay,” Jon said. “Okay. Keep my secret. And – what do you want in return?”  
  
“I want to go to Westeros,” Sansa said quickly. “Next summer. I want to stay at the palace and everything. If that’s okay. I mean, I understand if it’s not, but you’re asking a lot, and you know how much I love history and royalty and – ”  
  
“I’m sure the consulate will be able to work out a state visit for you, Miss Stark,” Daenerys cut in smoothly. “Especially in return for doing such a massive favor for our heir. So are we agreed? You’ll do your best to help Jon keep his personal matters private until further notice?”  
  
Sansa nodded breathlessly, and Jon heaved a sigh. “Good,” Daenerys said, as Barristan gave her a meaningful nod. “Jon, you must excuse me, but I’ve got a meeting with Spain and Portugal that I cannot miss, so we’ll have to continue this conversation at a later time. Do you take part in any extracurricular activities?”  
  
“Wha?” The question came from left field, and Jon squinted as he took it in. “Um, no –”  
  
“Good,” his aunt replied as she stood up from the table, the rest of the room again dutifully following suit. “Then I’ll have Jorah pick you up from school at the normal time from now on. I will have my assistant draft a letter to your aunt and uncle explaining the specifics, and I invite them to phone the consulate with any questions, which I will have addressed immediately.” They walked to the door, Daenerys flanked by her security detail and Jon and Sansa trailing behind. She stopped and tucked a piece of her silver-blonde hair behind her ear before Barristan opened the door. Turning back to Jon, she said quietly, “It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, dear. We’ll do our best to make the transition as painless as possible.”  
  
“As painless as possible,” Jon repeated. “That sounds – ominous.”  
  
“Does it?” she asked, and with that, her detail ushered her back out into the bright fall sunlight, leaving Jon and Sansa behind in the living room, feeling absolutely gobsmacked.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just couldn’t stop thinking about how different his life might have been had one or two little things not happened – what if his mom hadn’t died? What if his biological father hadn’t been killed? What if his aunt weren’t infertile? He was stuck at the end of the line of this series of events he had no control over.

Monday arrived, and with it came a tremendous amount of anxiety. Jon felt as though he were operating on autopilot all morning – he showered, brushed his teeth, and collected his homework while barely noticing what he was doing. It wasn’t until Aunt Cat caught him attempting to spread butter on a pop-tart that he realized how zoned-out he was.  
  
“Sorry,” he muttered, dropping the knife in the sink and taking the pop-tart between his teeth as he picked up his book bag. “Just really – tired.”  
  
“Aha,” she said drolly. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your – family situation, would it?”  
  
The look on Jon’s face must have reflected how taken aback he felt, because she chuckled. “Ned and I know all about it. We were waiting for you to come to us to talk about it, if you wanted to—”  
  
“I don’t,” Jon said brusquely, taking the pop-tart out from between his teeth. He felt a spray of crumbs tumble down his front as he did, but shrugged it off – no time to change now. “It’s no big deal.”  
  
Aunt Cat raised both eyebrows, looking him skeptically up and down. “Are you sure? It seems like this is the definition of a big deal, Jon.”  
  
He shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it, especially not with his aunt. Not with Cat, who had only ever been cordial enough with him, like she resented him for throwing off the balance of her perfectly-drawn family and home. As if he’d asked to grow up there. For Christ’s sake, if this prince thing was for real – and it was slowly beginning to sink in that it very much was – what was the point of forcing him to grow up in a family where he so clearly didn’t belong?  
  
The thing that weighed on him, that had kept him up late the two nights previous, tossing and turning in bed and trying to clear his own mind without resorting to sneaking a pill from Ned’s Ambien stash in the master bathroom, was that his life had essentially been decided by totally random, arbitrary twists of fate. The more he read about his real father, the Crown Prince Rhaegar, the less he liked the idea of him – he’d apparently blown off a high-profile engagement to elope with Jon’s late mother, a contemporary artist doing a residency in Paris in her twenties. As soon as his mother passed, though, Rhaegar peaced out, moved back to Westeros and married another suitable aristocrat and had three children to carry on the family lineage, and had ascended the throne a few years later after the death of his father, King Aerys. The whole thing felt like some kind of bullshit soap opera, and the Targaryens, he was beginning to realize, were _insane_.  
  
Like, literally insane.  
  
Most of them were crazy. Daenerys’s other brother, Prince Viserys, had been known as Westeros’ “spare heir” his entire life, and he’d lived fast and died young – some people speculated that it was a game of Russian Roulette; others were certain it was a mob killing just made to look like one. King Aerys had been known as “the Mad King” up until his own death. The further back it went, the weirder it got – there were allegations of incest, cousins marrying cousins and _worse_ , and the whole family was just a _mess_. And he was _related_ to these people.  
  
He’d finally had to physically stop himself from scrolling through Wikipedia and try to get some sleep at two in the morning the night before, and the sleepless night took its toll. He just couldn’t stop thinking about how different his life might have been had one or two little things not happened – what if his mom hadn’t died? What if his biological father hadn’t been killed? What if his aunt weren’t infertile? One thing after another just fell apart, like a series of dominos, and here he was, stuck at the end of the line of this series of events he had no control over. And it sucked.  
  
He tromped into the living room, still chewing a mouthful of breakfast pastry, and sat down heavily on the couch as the rest of the house rushed around getting ready. Arya’s hair was wet, and she and Sansa were yelling at each other again, but Jon didn’t have the energy to get involved. He sighed, pulled out his headphones, and put on the Smiths. _Because it’s not my home, it’s their home and I’m welcome no more._  
  
Shit. It’s like Morrissey knew his soul, or something.

 

* * *

  
  
He made it all the way through fifth period before he really woke up, practically sleepwalking through a chemistry test and a discussion on The Great Gatsby. It wasn’t until the bell rang to signal the start of his lunch period that he felt alert enough to hold a conversation.  
  
“Are you okay?” Sam asked, sounding worried as he leaned against the locker beside Jon’s. Jon dragged his teeth over his lower lip, not sure how to answer. Sam was looking at him like he might be afraid that something was really wrong, which was the least of his intentions – God forbid anyone actually worry about him over nothing. That’d make him a total dick. But talking about it, he thought, might help.  
  
“I dunno,” he shrugged, slamming his locker shut. They turned to walk down B Hall and out to the quad, and Jon shoved his hands in his pockets awkwardly. “Just… a lot on my mind, I guess.”  
  
“Oh,” Sam said. But instead of following up with _Do you want to talk about it?_ or something to that nature, he instead said, “So, do you think I should ask Gilly out?”  
  
“Jesus, didn’t we go over this last week?” Jon asked as they walked out into the bright one o’clock sun. “I thought you were going to leave a note in her clarinet case.”  
  
“I did,” Sam said. “But she didn’t say anything.”  
  
“Did you sign it?”  
  
“No. Should I have?”  
  
“Ugh,” said Jon. “Probably.” They reached their spot beneath the oak tree and sat down heavily, Sam pulling his bag lunch out of his backpack. Jon crossed his legs and pushed up his sleeves, pulled out a sharpie, and began doodling on his left forearm. Sam glanced up from his sandwich – prosciutto on a roll, from the look of it, his mom always packed him the good shit – and furrowed his brow, trying to read what Jon was writing upside down.  
  
“Just lyrics,” he qualified, holding them up. “I’m really into the Smiths right now.”  
  
“Huh,” was all Sam said. Then: “So are you ready for that test in World Civ?”  
  
Jon felt his stomach drop. That’s what he had forgotten to do all weekend. “Shit,” he muttered. “No. This isn’t the one about – ”  
  
“Westeros and Dorne and all those weird European countries, I think,” Sam said around a mouthful of prosciutto and red pepper. He swallowed, then added, “I have my notes, if you want to –”  
  
“Yeah, please, thank God,” Jon said, taking the notebook Sam slid toward him and flipping through it. “Fuck. I can’t believe I forgot about this. Especially after the weekend I had—”  
  
He cut himself off before he could say anything else, but Sam looked askance at him anyway. “It’s nothing,” Jon clarified. “I just, like, I could’ve sworn I forgot to do _something_ and it turns out this was what I forgot. So I’m pretty pissed.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Understandable. What does it say about absolute primogeniture, again?”  
  
“Uh.” He turned pages rapidly, scanning Sam’s neat handwriting for the phrase. “That’s the thing about lines of succession, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Lineage.”  
  
“Oh, right. Something about how it’s a progressive country because they practice – it’s called – women can rule it,” Jon said, without looking down. “Remember? Something about Dorne influencing them, because they’ve let firstborn women rule for like, centuries?”  
  
Sam snorted. “Okay. I think you’ll do fine on this test.”  
  
Jon narrowed his eyes, looking away, anywhere but directly at Sam. “Knock on wood.”

 

* * *

  
  
He did not do fine.  
  
In fact, he walked out of seventh period World Civ feeling as if every red blood cell in his body had been replaced by tiny lead pellets. He felt heavy and unmotivated and still couldn’t remember whether Westeros was famous for its grapes or its pears. The irony just felt too steep.  
  
He glanced around the drop-off parking lot. Most of his classmates would be gravitating to the junior-senior lots by now, and that gave him a little bit of room to breathe, but it didn’t feel like enough. Since the revelation had begun to weigh on him, the idea of being seen getting into a limo outfitted with diplomatic flags and plates seemed like it was just flirting with danger, and as the car pulled up, he jumped in as soon as possible, managing to whack Jorah across the knees with his book bag as he slid into the backseat.  
  
“We’ll work on that,” said Jorah dryly.  
  
Jon sighed. “Yeah, uh, speaking of the limo,” he said as they pulled out of the lot. “Is there any way you could leave it back at the consulate next time?”  
  
“This vehicle allows us to park anywhere and commit American traffic violations with impunity,” Jorah said. “The limo stays.”  
  
“Could you at least pick me up a couple blocks from school, then?” Jon said, annoyed. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, because, like, dude. I do. But it’s not exactly subtle. And I’m really going for subtlety. You know. I’m just saying.”  
  
Jorah said nothing, but gave Jon a pointed look signaling the end of the conversation. He sighed again and sat back against the rich leather seat, staring out the window as the driver zipped through the afternoon traffic on Melrose. “Are we going to the consulate?” he asked. “I thought it was over in Hancock Park –”  
  
“We’re going to the Tyrell Rose of Beverly Hills,” Jorah said. “Your aunt is staying in the presidential suite. She believes it to be a more private setting for your preliminary education. We’ll continue your study at the consulate at a later time.”  
  
The Tyrell Rose was one of those hotels that Jon had never expected to get the opportunity to visit – it was equal parts sophisticated and scandalous, and, above all, expensive. But that was obvious. It was a Tyrell hotel. The name was synonymous with sordid elegance. _Sordid elegance_ , he thought, would be a really good title for the song he kept planning to write for Margaery. Huh. He’d have to think on that.  
  
They pulled into the valet, and Jorah hustled him out of the car and past a couple waiting photographers. He thought he heard one of them shout a name, but it wasn’t his, and Jorah rolled his eyes as they made it into the hotel. “The paparazzi were not for you,” he clarified as Jon glanced back over his shoulder, trying to figure out who they’d mistaken him for. “Some boy band is apparently on tour stateside, and they were under the impression you may have resembled one of them.”  
  
“Really? Which one?”  
  
“Haven’t a damned clue,” Jorah muttered as they stepped into the elevator. “Don’t know why you think I’d know that.” It closed on a ping, opened on a ding, and moments later, they were ensconced inside the presidential suite, Daenerys greeting them from the doorway in a deep-crimson dress. Jon returned her hellos without much enthusiasm, his mind still fixating on the devastating World Civ test.  
  
“Is everything quite all right?” she asked crisply, and Jon shrugged.  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean – well – no. I haven’t been sleeping at all these past couple days, and today I’m pretty sure I bombed a test about the country I’m apparently supposed to grow up to lead? And also, I have no idea how I’m supposed to keep all this a secret when everyone I know is in my business 24/7, up to and including my cousins, none of whom are particularly good at keeping secrets themselves? And also, I have a five dollar library fine at school because I lost a copy of _On the Road_ and I keep forgetting to pay it, so. Yeah. I mean, everything’s fine otherwise, but. That’s what’s up.”  
  
Daenerys and Jorah exchanged a cryptic look, and she exhaled slightly, taking a seat in an armchair and folding her hands in her lap, her ankles crossed delicately. “All of this is natural,” she said, before editing herself. “Well, no, almost none of that is natural, but it’s all understandable, I suppose. And it’s solvable – _well._ You’ll take care of the library fine, at least.”  
  
“That’s helpful.”  
  
“No matter,” she said, matter-of-fact. “That’s neither here nor there. We’ll get straight to it, then. Jon, you’re here to learn the ins and outs of being an heir to the throne. That means we’ll teach you how to walk, talk, dress, sit, stand, eat, wave—”  
  
“Wave?”  
  
“—all in a manner that befits the Crown Prince. But it’s not all matters of deportment, of course. You’ll have lots of studies to undertake. Political science, namely, but practical politicking as well. By the end of the next three months, I’d like you to at least know the names and faces of the royal court and small council, and be able to interact with them at the ball.”  
  
The ball. He’d forgotten almost entirely about the damn ball. “Aunt Daenerys?”  
  
“I’ve told you, you can call me Aunt Dany.”  
  
“Well, it’s easier for me to remember Daenerys, so can I just call you that?”  
  
She sighed. “Go on.”  
  
“Not to be a bummer, but what if I kind of suck at this?”  
  
“You won’t,” Daenerys said fiercely. “It’s simply not an option. Do you think I was born with the knowledge and skills I have now? Of course not. It took years of dedicated study, and no one expects you to live up to royal protocol after three months. But we’re prepared to give you the full crash course, and we’d like you to apply yourself.”  
  
There were worse options. Jon thought it over before nodding tentatively. “Okay,” he said. “Where do we start?”  
  
“Stand up,” she said. He obeyed, and Daenerys looked him over critically. “Turn around. Let me have a look at you. What’s that written on your arm?”  
  
Jon glanced down at his left arm, where he’d scrawled lyrics from the Smiths’ “Unlovable” that afternoon during lunch. “Oh, uh. Just – just some song lyrics—”  
  
“Well, that simply won’t do,” Daenerys said. “What does that say? ‘I wear black on the outside—’”  
  
“’Cause black is how I feel on the inside,’ yeah.” Jon felt his face flush as he rolled down his sleeves hastily. “Sorry. I just got bored –”  
  
“Doodle on a notebook, not on your body,” said Daenerys matter-of-factly. “Now. Oh, yes, your hair. We’ll have to fix that, get you a proper haircut. I’ll have Missandei set you up with Daario by the end of the week.”  
  
“I _like_ my hair,” Jon protested. “I just figured out how to make it look good, too.”  
  
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said, “it’s simply not in keeping with the image to which we’d like you to adhere. Now, next time I see you, I’d like your slacks to be pressed or at least ironed, and to see you in a shirt that doesn’t look like it was picked up off your bedroom floor – tie done properly, in a half-Windsor, and preferably a blazer. Cuff links won’t be necessary but you’ll have to have a pair. Again, we’ll handle all of this. Your clothing is all part of your image as well. Jorah, I believe, can take you shopping—”  
  
Jorah cleared his throat stiffly, but she didn’t seem to notice. Daenerys was on a roll. “And shave properly! Trust me, you’ll look back in five years and regret all of these grooming choices.” Jon rubbed his hand self-consciously over his chin, where he could feel a negligible amount of stubble growing in. “Now. Posture. That’ll be our first lesson. Stand up straight, dear. No, straighter. Pull your shoulders back – you look as if you’re apologizing for being here. You want to thank people for their presence, while looking as if you’re merely gracing them with yours.” She stood gracefully from her chair to demonstrate, and Jon found himself following along clumsily as she walked him through the motions.  
  
The next two hours passed painfully slowly. By the end, he’d finally managed to do a satisfactory turn around the suite living room without Jorah and Daenerys correcting his posture once, but he couldn’t help slumping as he slid back into the limo on the way home. Jorah wasn’t accompanying him back to the Stark house, and so he took out his phone and fiddled with it idly, playing a game as the car cut through the traffic. “Uh, hey,” he called through the half-raised partition to the driver, who glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Do you think you could let me off a few blocks from my house? Just, you know, to avoid attracting attention?”  
  
There was no reply, but the driver followed his request, letting him off three blocks from the Starks’. As Jon hiked up the sloping streets of the Hollywood Hills, he suddenly became very aware of his posture again, and threw back his shoulders as he walked, his book bag feeling much heavier than usual. He glanced down at the writing on his arm, already faded from where he’d attempted to scrub it off in the bathroom back at the Tyrell Rose. It looked good. It was a habit of his, drawing on whatever part of his body was available whenever he got bored or had something to say. He always assumed he’d have a bunch of tattoos someday, had already started planning for his first on his eighteenth birthday. Just another dream he’d never get to accomplish, apparently.  
  
The October sunset was brilliant, fading from orange to purple in the sky as he turned onto his street. Violet hour, they called it in the movie business; apparently the most flattering time of day. He heaved a sigh as he walked down the block, looking at the Spanish-style 1920s houses set back from the street, some separated from the block by gates and others only by long lawns. When he got to the Starks’ house – which remained ungated, despite Ned’s frequently-vocalized misgivings about the fact – he did a double-take.  
  
His ex-girlfriend was sitting on the front steps of the wraparound porch.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just, you know… do you ever feel like people expect way more of you than you’re capable of giving them, but you don’t know how to tell them their faith is misplaced, so you’re just kind of smiling and nodding and going along with it but in reality you’re actually terrified and have no idea what you’re doing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being all slow to update, but in the past week and a half I:
> 
> 1\. spent the weekend in the Hamptons where I  
> 2\. caught the flu, which has had me out of commission for the whole past week, and  
> 3\. also just started a new full-time job which is taking up lots of my time.
> 
> Nonetheless, the rest of this story is meticulously plotted so it's just a matter of sitting down to actually write it out. This chapter is shorter than I expected but whatever. Better short and weird from flu medicine than nonexistent, as they say. Anyway, stuff gets juicy next chapter, so stick with it, friends.

“Hello, Jon Snow.”  
  
Ygritte smirked in her crooked, sideways, infectious way as he walked up the carefully trimmed front lawn. Her feet rested on top of her skateboard, and she slid it back and forth slightly as he walked toward her, leaning back on her hands to look up at him.  
  
“What do you want?” The question came out more brusquely than he intended, and he cringed inwardly, but she didn’t seem to notice. She just kept smirking up at him, like she was waiting for something.  
  
“Is Robb home?”  
  
“I don’t know, why don’t you text him?”  
  
“I did,” she said with a shrug. “He ‘New phone, who dis?’ed me, and I didn’t want to make it awkward, so…”  
  
“So you just thought you’d come over?”  
  
“It’s all downhill from my place,” she said. “So, you know, not like it’s a big inconvenience.” She lived only a few blocks further up into the Hills, in the same neighborhood. “Anyway, it’s nothing personal. I just missed a couple days of school and I wanted to borrow his notes from Brit Lit.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Jon hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. “Well. I don’t think he’s home yet, so if you want to come inside…”  
  
He didn’t expect her to take him up on the offer, but to his mild surprise, she shrugged and stood up, picking up her board as she took the three steps up to the front door and laying it down beside the elegant white porch swing. Jon rolled his eyes behind her back as he took her in: loose red-and-black plaid shirt, denim cutoffs, dirty white high-tops, her hair in a loose braid full of flyaways threatening to escape at any moment. She was still exactly the way he liked her – a little rough around the edges aesthetically to compensate for her all-encompassing wholesomeness as a person.  
  
“So,” he said as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting her walk inside first. “How are your classes? You have Brit Lit with Robb and what else?”  
  
“Uh, AP Calc and Gov, among other subjects, and I’m taking some science classes at UCLA,” Ygritte said as she set down her red backpack on a couch. She turned to Jon, shoving her hands in the pockets of her shorts as she looked around awkwardly. “So Robb’s not home?”  
  
“He shouldn’t be out too late,” Jon said, feeling equally awkward. Then— _shit._ He hit his forehead with his palm as he groaned. “Ugh, sorry, actually, I just remembered. I think they’re all at Arya’s game tonight. Or Bran’s play. One of the two. It might be a while.”  
  
“Out of the loop, huh?” Ygritte asked, raising a brow.  
  
“I wasn’t _not_ invited,” Jon clarified quickly. “I usually go to that stuff. I was just – busy.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Family obligation.”  
  
“I thought they’re your family.”  
  
“Different branch of the family,” Jon said. “It’s my aunt. She’s in town for a while and wants to get to know me. You know. It’s a whole thing.”  
  
“Right.” Ygritte nodded fake-thoughtfully, in a way that Jon sensed meant she wasn’t particularly interested. “So they’re not…”  
  
“They should be back within the hour,” said Jon. For some reason, whatever it was, he didn’t want her to leave. Not that they had much to talk about or even much in common – but all of a sudden, despite not having seriously thought about Ygritte in months, he missed her, missed having her around, just soaking up that aura of fire and vague condescension she radiated. “Did you eat? I haven’t eaten yet.”  
  
She shrugged. “I could probably eat.”  
  
“Cool. There’s leftover pizza, I think. Or spaghetti? There’s leftovers. We’ll find something.” He was rambling without saying much at all, but she shrugged again, smiled slightly, and followed him to the kitchen.  
  
There wasn’t leftover pizza, but Jon hit the jackpot when he discovered that Cat had gone grocery shopping that morning, that no one else had gotten into the fridge since then. “Oh, shit, there’s ice cream,” he muttered as he peered into the freezer, and pulled out the tub and slid it across the counter to Ygritte, who grinned and spooned two helpings into a bowl. The pantry held kettle chips and dried pineapple rings, and he ripped open the former after hiding the latter deep in the back, beneath a dusty pallet of canned mixed vegetables that had been there longer than he could remember.  
  
“So,” Jon said as he clinked bowls ceremonially with Ygritte. “How’s the whole college thing coming?”  
  
She sighed as she swallowed a mouthful of ice cream. “It’s fine. I’m applying to MIT early decision, so…”  
  
“Right. Because you’re a genius.”  
  
“Not a genius.”  
  
“Yeah, no, every girl builds a robotic arm in her garage for fun…” Jon rolled his eyes again, good-natured. It wasn’t that he resented her, per se, it was just—why did she have to be so fucking good at everything he wasn’t? Science, math, skateboarding. She worked part-time at the garage that housed his Mustang-to-be. She was going to get into some great engineering school for sure. And she was cute. It almost felt like a test, like her whole existence was some kind of practical joke at his expense, because he’d dated her just long enough to fuck it all up beyond repair, and now she was sitting in his kitchen, waiting for Robb to get home from god-knows-where so that she could “borrow his notes” but probably in a really cute, flirtatious way that would make him fall a little bit in love and then they’d go off and have perfect ginger babies, Jon thought miserably, because Robb got everything that should have been his and that’s just how it always would be.  
  
Ygritte snorted. “You gotta stay busy,” she said, and, oh right, the robotic arm. “Speaking of which, what’re you up to? I haven’t seen you around the garage much. Still hanging out with the band geeks?”  
  
“Kind of,” Jon said. “Sam’s pretty wrapped up in this girl. Gilly. You know her?”  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
“She’s pretty forgettable. And… I don’t know. There’s just a lot on my plate right now.” He took a bite of ice cream and swallowed, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “Family stuff. You know.”  
  
“I guess.” She shrugged.  
  
“A lot of responsibility, all of a sudden,” he pressed on. She wasn’t really paying attention, he could tell, and he wanted her to understand the stakes – wanted to do something stupid, like tell her the truth. But Jon held back, knowing how stupid that would be; he hadn’t really spoken to her in months and it’s not like she came over here to reunite with him anyway. “It’s just, you know… do you ever feel like people expect way more of you than you’re capable of giving them, but you don’t know how to tell them their faith is misplaced, so you’re just kind of smiling and nodding and going along with it but in reality you’re actually terrified and have no idea what you’re doing?”  
  
She smiled knowingly, shook her head. “I mean, my parents actually think I’m going to get into MIT early decision, so…”  
  
“Yeah. Basically.” Jon paused and took a deep breath, mulling it over. He really wanted to tell her, if only so that she’d take him seriously. But before he could open his mouth to let it out, he heard keys in the front door lock, and suddenly the house was full of noise again. He quickly shook his head, stood up, picked up his and Ygritte’s empty bowls and placed them in the sink. Anything to break the tension they’d somehow accidentally created.  
  
She jumped up from the table as well as Cat, Sansa, and Arya all walked into the kitchen at once, evidently in the middle of an argument. Arya had her hands shoved deep into her sweatshirt pockets as she moaned, “I told you like, two months ago, I hate the Pooles—”  
  
“You only hate them because I like them,” Sansa snapped as she rummaged around in the fridge. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”  
  
“Why can’t I stay with Robb and Theon?” Arya asked. “That’s really very gender-essentialist of you, Mom. I’m not going to get into trouble.”  
  
“Enough,” Cat groaned. “Sansa, Arya, you and the boys are both going to stay with the Pooles, period. Arya, it has nothing to do with you getting into trouble, it has everything to do with you being fourteen years old and me not trusting Theon Greyjoy much further than I can throw him.” She sighed and placed her bag down on the counter before noticing Jon and Ygritte standing near the sink and doing a double-take. “Jon— _Ygritte_. What a… surprise.”  
  
“I’m just here to borrow some notes from Robb,” Ygritte said smoothly. “Is he home yet?”  
  
“He and Theon should be around someplace,” Cat said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Go check upstairs, sweetie, they couldn’t have gone far in the three minutes we’ve been home.”  
  
Ygritte cocked a brow, but said nothing, and loped out of the kitchen. Jon, however, was even more confused. “What’s all this about staying with the Pooles or the Greyjoys?”  
  
“Um, apparently Mom and Dad are going out of town for a week and they won’t let us stay home alone?” Sansa said, leaning against the counter with a glass of orange juice in hand. “Which is ridiculous, because all of us are perfectly mature and capable of—”  
  
“It’s not you kids I’m worried about, it’s the young ones,” Cat said as she worked open a bottle of red wine. “But if I let you stay home and send them to Grandma and Grandpa, then we’ve got a whole lifetime of _that’s-not-fairs_ to listen to, and I’m not going to set a precedent I’ll have to deal with for the rest of my life right now, and the Pooles are perfectly happy to take you, so it is _settled_.” She poured herself a generous glass, then took a sip and sighed.  
  
Jon frowned. “When is this, again?”  
  
“Oh, not until December,” she said. “I was going to tell you, but then I remembered you’ll probably be at your—” Cat stopped herself short in the middle of the sentence, cutting herself off just in time as Jon’s stomach leapt into his throat. He gave his aunt a meaningful look as she took another hasty sip of wine, Sansa mirroring her action with her orange juice.  
  
“My pre-college program in Boston,” Jon finished automatically, weakly. “Yeah. It won’t be a big deal. Thanks for the heads-up, I guess.”  
  
In the awkward moment that followed, Arya looked around the room, skeptical eyes landing on each of three faces. “You guys are being super weird,” she said. “Is there something I should know?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jon said. “I got into a pre-college thing for music production at BU over winter break.” It was a lazy lie—what precollege programs took place over winter break instead of the summer in the first place?—but he figured they’d come clean long before they’d actually have to follow through on it.  
  
Arya, however, looked unconvinced. “Whatever,” she muttered. “Congratulations.” She spun on her heel and left the kitchen, hands still shoved deep in the pockets of her soccer hoodie.  
  
Jon looked back to Cat, who shrugged. “Her team lost by two,” she said. “It’s been a rough day for all of us.”  
  
  
Jon took the stairs two at a time, but before he made it to his third-floor eyrie of a bedroom, he ran into Robb, Theon, and Ygritte in the hall outside Robb’s room. Ygritte seemed to be in the process of saying her goodbyes, but she turned to Jon with an unusually familiar smile. “Get everything you need?” he asked, unsure of how to gauge it.  
  
“Yep,” she smiled back. “Walk me out?”  
  
“Of course.” Jon glanced back at Robb and Theon as he followed her back down the stairs, watching as she tucked her phone back into her back pocket. They made it out onto the front porch before he said, “So, notes, huh?”  
  
“Yeah, I just took a couple quick pictures of them,” she said. “Theon was just being…”  
  
“Theon.”  
  
“His usual self. So yeah.”  
  
“He’s not that bad,” Jon said. “Just kind of spacy. He and Robb bring out the weird in each other.”  
  
“I guess,” Ygritte shrugged noncommittally. “Anyway, I should get home.”  
  
“—Yeah.” Jon answered too quickly, and the silence between them permeated the space for a moment.  
  
“So I’ll see you around,” Ygritte said finally, and she hopped down the steps with her skateboard in hand.  
  
“Definitely,” Jon called after her, but it was too late. She didn’t turn back.


End file.
